Untouched
by abc79-de
Summary: Trory. Set Season one, PostTBP2 and PreLDAT. Pretext of Rory didn't go to Madeline's party. COMPLETE.
1. Part One

Summary: Trory. Set Season One Post-TBP2 and Pre-LDAT. The Kiss and Madeline's Party never happened for the purposes of this fic.

Disclaimer: I own no rights to anything that is mentioned in my stories, including the main characters that I've borrowed for my plot manipulations.

Rating: T

Story Title: Untouched

AN: Ah, so, this popped into my head. I'm not quite sure where it's going—if it's a one shot or the beginning of a story. . . it'll depend on inspiration and of course, interest. Anyhow, from my mind to your eyes. Enjoy.

He was flawed.

Not that he'd ever admit to it or amend his behavior to compensate for it. To hear him speak you'd think he was God's gift to women, law, athletics, and style.

And you'd be right.

At least, in some respects. He did a pretty good job at talking a big game. He knew how to command a room, drawing your attention to lie solely with him, making you feel like you have some damn unique bond with him. He made you believe as he did; as if you're seeing him through his eyes. Something about the way his voice floods the spaces between your neural synapses, and then he finishes you off with a conspiratorial wink. It's a defense mechanism he learned at the knee of his father, who learned it from his father before him, and so on for generations now. No one questioned him, or was even given the chance. He didn't risk being seen as anything but in command, quick-witted, and indelible.

And then she walked into his life.

She was full of questions. She didn't play games. She had tricks up her sleeve that were embedded in her DNA for unraveling no-nonsense, self-assured, overly inflated men like him in five seconds or less.

They were at war from day one.

They slid into a routine like one slips into a favorite pair of jeans. It developed out of need—his to save face around her and hers to keep him out of her way. It was inevitable that their paths continually cross as often as they began to. Those around them reveled in each meeting. They, without fail, put on a show of monumental proportions. Admission fees could have been collected at the front gates. Reality television producers should have been informed of the spectacle they created—surely they could earn a pretty penny off of the simple conversations the two of them had.

They called them conversations. The rest of the world would refer to them as heated debates.

They agree on nothing.

There was a rhythm, palpable and life-giving, that was unique to this routine. It was their creation, and it thrived despite all efforts to the contrary. If asked, he would say its existence came out of her incessant desire to find out if all the rumors she'd heard about him in the women's room were true. He'd add a wink and blow a kiss to take her up a notch, and coo his assurances sweetly as steam literally whistled out of her ears.

She would say that he was a petulant five-year-old child that could never admit failure and needed to argue like an infant needed to suck on his pacifier. And then she'd flash those eyes of hers at him, rendering him speechless for a spell.

Granted a short spell. She would blink and he'd pick up his line of attack.

Not that he'd admit to his fumbling anyhow.

Her eyes weren't even a real color anyhow. At least no color found in the natural habitat around them or in the Big Box of Crayolas that he used to select colors at his leisure from back in elementary school. One day after a particularly heated exchange between them he'd gone home and found the well-loved box among his old boxed up toys and sports trophies, on a quest for the name of the shade of her irises. Nothing he found seemed brilliant enough, blue enough—nothing in that box made his heart pound like her eyes did.

She swore to herself that she could learn to ignore him, like she'd been instructed to do with bullies in her youth. Ignore them and they'll go away. They're looking for attention and if you don't give it to them, they'll stop—wholly unsatisfied. That's how she wanted to leave him each time. Wholly unsatisfied.

However, that's generally how she felt each time they parted. Not to mention the burning and tightening in her stomach. The craving that not even coffee squelched. So she hated him even more for making her feel so incomplete, and the next time they clashed, her discomfort only escalated.

And he knew it. He could see it in her eyes. Those glimmering blue-ish orbs that haunted him throughout the day and into the night. They darkened upon the introduction of his taunting—like storm clouds rolling over a calm sea. They lightened when he complimented her—the eye of a devastating storm. He longed to get lost in their depths, knowing water of that color must be sweet to the taste and warm to the touch. It had to be magic.

She was sure of one thing. He would never to be an obstacle for her success. No matter how unsatisfied upon her victory she was left. He seemed to delight in the fact that she saw him as a roadblock—he saw her as a welcome challenge that despite the extra time it seemed to be taking him to subvert her, it would be all the sweeter upon her acceptance of his superiority.

You can imagine the greatness and potential others saw in the smoldering fires that were constantly at the ready to be ignited when the pair's eyes simply locked onto one another across a room.

This is how she found herself to be his partner, his cooperation the basis for 70 percent of her final grade in her American Literature course in her sophomore year of preparatory school. He'd sat back in his desked chair and grinned like the Cheshire cat, and she'd felt as if she'd been shoved down the rabbit hole.

To complain to authorities was not her way. She wanted to be seen as competent and efficient.

He would gladly argue with someone that believed they were his superior, just to show them they were mistaken. He was above their rules. He was unaffected. It was just that in this case, he felt his teacher finally had a brilliant idea. He raised his hand, as she watched him mistrustfully from her seat two rows over.

"Yes, Mr. DuGrey?"

"How long will we have to prepare for this oral?" he smirked after seeing Rory's face contort into a look of pure hatred at his choice of words to describe the presentation their instructor had just been explaining about.

"Three weeks. Is that sufficient for you, Mr. DuGrey?"

"Yes, Ma'am. I'm sure my partner and I will need to put in a lot of long evenings in preparation, to make sure we give a top-rate exhibition."

"Well, I should hope you all put quite a bit of effort into this. But I'm sure you and Miss Gilmore will have no trouble in preparing a well-informed presentation. Now, are there any further questions?" she inquired before moving onto the next lecture point. Tristan looked over to Rory and smiled genuinely, another of his tricks to lower her defenses.

Another of his tricks that made her want to donate his body to a medical facility for students to practice on. She flipped her long, golden brown locks over the shoulder closest to him and focused her attention on her teacher's words and off of the heat emanating from the spot he'd affixed his gaze on, just above the junction of her shoulder and neck. She was capable of bursting into flames by the time the bell sounded over the school, sending mentally exhausted teens scurrying out into the halls for a ten minute grace period.

She moved gracefully, slowly, in gathering her belongings—as if to soak up the excess knowledge that being in a space of learning provided.

He bolted quickly, unwilling to hear any supposedly sage words of wisdom that were of no use to him in the real world.

But he waited just outside the threshold for her. This was their arena.

"So, your house or mine?" he inquired, falling into step beside her as she emerged, not even acknowledging his addition to her route.

She didn't respond because she knew he was looking for a reaction. She wasn't up to giving him one. It was bad enough their teacher had assigned them as partners—she'd been hoping to be paired with someone that took pride in a job well done and that could hold a serious conversation about literature (or any other topic, for that matter) for more than five seconds. It wasn't the case, and she would regroup. She'd figure it out. She would not have a distracting argument about how she wouldn't be caught dead at his house on a Friday night.

"Because mine is much more spacious, I'm guessing," he condescended. "Unless you're just dying to unleash some of that small town hospitality on me."

"Hospitality isn't what I would unleash on you, if given the opportunity."

"Kinky," his eyes danced with enjoyment. He'd drawn her in. This game he might liken to Jenga. He never knew how many blocks he'd have to remove before she lost her balance and tumbled to the ground for him.

She let out a tortured groan and spun her locker dial through the learned combination. Her fingers were deft; her eyes needn't even glance in their direction to achieve success. She slammed her books down onto the metal shelf and spun on one heel to face him.

"I assume you can find the Hartford Public Library, correct? What with it being right down the street from the free clinic and all?"

"There's a problem with your plan, Gilmore. There are certain activities we need to partake in that are frowned upon in a library."

"I realize _The Breakfast Club_ might be the only exposure to a library you've ever had, but contrary to popular belief school work is allowed."

"We're putting together an oral presentation. They frown on shouting in a library, don't they?"

She rolled her eyes and slammed her locker shut for emphasis. "Will you quit saying oral like that?"

"Like what?" he smirked.

"Like there is any way that I would lose my mind and let anything more than school work occur during this purgatory."

"You know what I think?" he leaned in over her shoulder, letting her feel his chest against her back.

"I'm all aquiver in anticipation," she monotoned her response.

"I think you protest a lot for someone who's not interested."

"Well, when you're constantly hurling innuendos my way, what choice do I have? Besides, why would we be shouting in the library?" she returned to his earlier comment.

"When have you and I ever had an exchange that didn't end in you calling out my name in the heat of the moment?" he turned her against a locker now, reveling in the heat that was creeping up from under the collar of her standard Chilton uniform.

"God, you're such an ass," she pushed him away so that she could make her escape back out onto her normal route, to the safety of her next class. One in which he would not be in attendance. One of only two reprieves she got all day.

He watched her walk away, enjoying his success and the way her skirt swayed back and forth as she stomped off.

--&--

Her favorite part of the day.

Her escape from the competition and the unaffected attitude she held up for seven hours. Away from boys that looked at her as if she was something for their amusement and girls that looked at her like their enemy. Like she wanted to trade places with any of them.

She had exactly fifteen minutes in which to read her latest novel, usually knocking out a chapter or two before her bus came to take her back to the small town in which her hair would be let down and her true personality could be exposed.

"Get in," came the voice that she had been so grateful to get away from just five minutes earlier. He'd pulled up in front of the very bench she was waiting on, his motor idling as he stared at her through the rolled down window.

"Go away," she retorted, figuring she owed him no more than he gave her. The less, the better.

"Come on, Mary, let me give you a ride home."

"I'm sorry, I must be at the wrong bench. I thought I was at the bus stop, not the gigolo express."

"We need to talk, just get in the damn car, would you?" he instructed, his patience wearing thin. She'd never seen him lose his cool really—he kept up his relentless mocking attitude so well she would have never guessed it wore on him.

"Talk about what?" she asked with narrowed eyes. His mouth parted slightly, a smirk forming as his response sprung up at the ready. "If you say oral again, I'm going to slice all your tires open right here and now," she threatened.

"Our assignment. It has to be done, and I know you want to get an A."

She struggled. He knew appealing to her sense of accomplishment would ensnare her. She couldn't imagine that he cared if they got an A or assigned community service. He had an agenda of his own.

"Fine," she consented, picking up her bag and shoving the thick novel into its confines yet again. "We can work out a game plan on the way to my house."

"I knew you'd come around to my way of thinking," he informed her as he opened the door for her from the interior and took her bag from her outstretched hand, tossing the lead-weighted object into the back seat of his car.

"If that's ever true, I have people who've agreed to mercy-kill me."

"I'm touched—you've told others about me?"

She ignored him, not willing to give him the satisfaction of knowing her own mother had christened him with a nickname. Even if it was Satan inspired. Her focus was centered on the direction that he was currently steering his car in. Instead of heading out toward the main turnpike, he was heading back in toward town.

"I realize that you're a man and therefore genetically incapable of asking for directions, so I'll offer them up. We need to head out to the highway," she pointed out the back window as if he were paying her attention.

"I know what I'm doing," he said as his foot hit the accelerator harder, punching them down the street as the car had been intended for. He swerved a minute later, pulling into a gas station. He paused, looking to her before exiting the car.

"Need anything?"

"Evidently coffee," she replied instantly. Any extended period of time spent with him should include caffeine so she didn't have to work so hard to keep up.

"Fine," he said, slamming the door and leaving her to wait on him in these foreign surroundings. She took a deep breath, trying to gather her thoughts. She should be exiting the car and calling her mother to come pick her up. For all she knew she was being kidnapped under the pretext of free coffee, like small girls who are lured with candy by strangers.

What she couldn't figure out was if he was truly a stranger to her or not.

He returned before she could decide, handing her coffee and pulling out a silver lighter from the glove box, his arm scraping across her bare knees to retrieve his trinket. Her skirt had ridden up her legs, leaving an expanse of skin that'd been untouched from the rays of the sun.

He wondered what else they'd been untouched by.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she asked with disgust as he pulled out a cigarette from a new pack and struck up a flame from under his fingers.

"You're smart, I'm sure you can figure it out."

"Well, you're not, otherwise you wouldn't be sucking on that disgusting thing."

"Want another shot in your coffee, Miss Perfect?" he bit back, taking in a long drag off the lit cigarette. An unfamiliar sweet smell filled the air and made her unfamiliarly dizzy.

"Excuse me?"

"So what if nicotine's my drug of choice? Don't pretend to be above having vices," he tapped on her cup with one knuckle before offering his cigarette to her. "Wanna try?"

"I don't smoke," she said quietly.

"Try it, they're cloves. Just take a small breath in, then lick your lips after. You'll like it," his voice had changed—from commanding to encouraging. He began to demonstrate, and she was set to say no.

Until he licked his bottom lip.

Her fingers brushed against his as they sought out to grab hold of the smooth, brown, paper-covered cigarette. He watched as she brought it up to her lips, and slowly wrapped them around the tip that he'd just had his own lips wrapped around.

A surge of power and arousal hit him at the very thought.

She closed her eyes as she took the world's shortest puff, coughing hard as she withdrew it from her mouth, looking ready to tear into him like he'd never seen her do. And then she brought her lower lip into her mouth, allowing her tongue to sweep across it, savoring the sweet flavor.

"It's sweet," she held out the cigarette, ready for him to take it back. He obliged her and nodded.

"Yes it is."

He said nothing else as he threw the car into reverse, ready to fulfill his promise to take her home. He'd wanted to prove something to her—that he always gets what he wants. She was no different than him, after all, no one could get through this life without addictions and needs. Desires.

She was his flaw.


	2. Part Two

Summary: Trory. Set Season One Post-TBP2 and Pre-LDAT. The Kiss at Madeline's Party never happened for the purposes of this fic.

Disclaimer: I own no rights to anything that is mentioned in my stories, including the main characters that I've borrowed for my plot manipulations.

Rating: T (might be bumped up with future chapters. The jury's still out.)

Story Title: Untouched

Chapter Title: Part Two

AN: Well, the majority of you seemed willing to read more, and I got some pesky ideas in my head, so voila! Enjoy! Oh, and thanks to everyone that took the time to let me know how they felt, and the reviews are never discouraged.

She was a smart girl.

She was well-rounded in her intelligence and could speak at length on any topic from the political ramifications of the new overseas trade agreement to _The Powerpuff Girls_. She was an excellent judge of character and kept people around her that encouraged her knowledge to flourish.

Her idea of a crazy night was staying in with her mother and her best friend, eating an entire box of Mallomars by herself, all the while reenacting a _Mystery Science Theater 3000_ episode using _Plan Nine from Outer Space_ and _Catwoman_ as their test subjects.

She loved her life. She loved her knowledge. She loved her fun.

She hated doubting that she wouldn't last one hour during a crazy night alongside him.

Stories about his reckless nights were no secret among the hallowed halls of their school. Hell, they were legendary. Thousands in therapy bills would be spent a decade from now because of them. Novels would be written, movies made. The girls that might have spoken in hushed tones about other boys they'd hooked up with the weekend before couldn't seem to contain the sheer exhilaration that they'd experienced, seemingly for the first time, with him. He knew what he was doing. He was like nothing else on this earth.

His ears never burned—his smirk just got set harder in stone.

She'd discovered during her first few hours at school that the girls were dying to find themselves underneath him and the boys were dying to find themselves at his right-hand side.

He was everything that she wasn't.

She loathed him. His arrogance. His inflated, though earned, ego.

He'd been sitting across from her at the largest dining room table in the known universe for the last half an hour, silent as a clam, and reading from one of the many books she'd brought in contribution to their project. They'd agreed to pick out a number of classic American novels, and then exchange them at their first meeting to decide together the merits of each contribution. He turned the page and scratched his jaw absently with an unimpressed look on his face.

She was beginning to question her sanity for agreeing to this meeting at all.

He seemed to have a game plan. A well thought out, if patronizing, reason for his suggestion. He'd wanted to meet at his house, as he reasoned it was closer to the Hartford library, and therefore they wouldn't have to waste any precious time should they need any extra reference materials. Despite the daggers that she shot him from her eyes, he maintained that Hartford's collection was probably substantially more complete than the one-room lean-to that her Revolutionary War town called a library.

She consented that she would meet him as he wished, but appeased herself by planning to make a voodoo doll of him when she got home from their study session.

"Just say it."

"Excuse me?" he looked up from his page, marking his place with his finger out of habit.

"You can't veto Fitzgerald. He encapsulated the 20s in America with his writing."

"I don't remember saying anything against Fitzgerald."

She rolled her eyes and looked at the stack of books he'd placed in front of her. Hemingway, Joyce, Sinclair, and others stared back at her from their spines. She'd previously read all the novels that he'd given her to peruse through. For her own pleasure. Well, except the Hemingway. She'd tried several times with _The Sun Also Rises,_ to no avail. Reading that novel had been like talking with Tristan. Frustrating and leading nowhere, until she gave up altogether. Unfortunately that was not an option right now, but she'd be damned if she was to be subjected to both at once.

"I realize it's hard to keep your eyes off of me, but I thought you wanted to get an A," he commented as she continued to watch him read.

"I've read all of these before," she said high-handedly.

"Like I haven't read the books you've chosen?"

"I don't know, I mean when could you ever find time to read, what with your busy schedule of smoking underneath the bleachers and nailing the next bimbo in your car after the big game?"

"I'll have you know I smoke in my car and nail the bimbos under the bleachers," he smirked at her, tossing _Tender Is The Night_ closed onto the table.

It was becoming ever more increasingly lucid to her that she'd lost her mind yesterday in his car. For a brief window, just a flash of time as she sat in his car with him, she thought perhaps he would let his guard down with her long enough to get through this assignment. That he could be serious and care about something other than himself for just the amount of time it would take for them to choose some books, discuss why they were important to the points they had to cover for their presentation, and decide who would say what. It could have been simple.

But, unlike her, he didn't like simple things.

"Is that your way of saying that my being here is interrupting your Friday night plans?"

"You are my Friday night plans," he winked at her.

"That's it, I'm out of here," she said, standing up and picking her jacket off of the back of the antique dining chair she'd been sitting in.

"Sit back down. We haven't chosen our books," he sighed, picking up _The Bluest Eye _and reading over the back cover. Despite the fact he'd read it and knew what the title was in reference to, since he met her he couldn't help but be reminded of her when he caught sight of the title.

"Please, it's obvious that you're only interested in misogynistic, single-minded writers," she said, still standing, but locked in place as she stared at him, "I'd hardly call your selection wide enough."

"Well, at least I didn't get my list from Oprah's Book Club," he held up Toni Morrison's book.

"She happens to be one of the most inspired and thought-provoking American authors of all time."

"And just how are my novelists single-minded?" he tested her.

She held up each book one by one. "War. Race. Class struggles. Need I go on?"

"You're going to anyway, why should I bother to stop you?" he leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest in anticipation of the next string of stinging words to come out of her mouth.

She was quiet, partially out of not wanting to give him the satisfaction about being right in his judgments of her, and partially out of having nothing else to say to him. He'd been effective in taking the wind out of her sails by talking her into circles.

"I take your silence to mean that you agree with me, upon further contemplation, that all of the things you just mentioned are classic American themes, brought to light and understood more fully by these novels that lay before you right now? That I myself have brought in contribution to this project. Or is your pride just too damn important to admit something like that?"

"My pride? Because I'm the one with the overblown ego in this room?" she practically yelled in disbelief.

"Your words, not mine," his hands went up in innocence.

Her ears always burned. Uncontainable flames.

"I don't have an ego problem. I have an entirely different problem," she said, pointing her slender index finger across the table at him.

He grinned. "You're right. And I have just the thing to amend that for you," he stood up and motioned for her to put her jacket that she still held in one hand on. "We're taking a break."

She shook her head. "If I walk out that door, I'm headed home."

"Is that an invitation? Not what I had in mind, but . . . ."

"That's it!" she cried out in frustration, slamming her hands down on the dining room table, and setting off a chain reaction to cause the water in their glasses to ripple. If either had been paying attention to the finer details, perhaps they would have taken note of the symbolism of the stirred up water.

Her storm was breaking.

"We have to get through this, and I'm not going to be able to do that with Smartass Tristan. I need you to dig deep and cut the crap, even if it's just long enough to have an exchange of words with me that doesn't leave me feeling the need to rip your throat out. After this project is done, if you feel the need to be an asshole to me, fine. Bring on your worst. But for now, I just need it to stop. Just pretend to be a normal human being."

He stared at her, but didn't allow his emotions to show on his face. He simply nodded and held his hand out toward the exit to the room. "Coffee. We'll talk. I promise not to do anything to encourage you ripping my throat out. Knowingly," he smirked.

She knew she should say no. But there was something about his tone that reminded her of the way he was with her the day before, in his car outside the gas station mini-mart. She unconsciously licked her lips, as if expecting to taste the same sweet taste of the cloves mixed with what she assumed to be him after she'd taken the single puff off his cigarette.

She gave an unconscious shiver at the thought of knowing what he tasted like.

"Fine, but no cigarettes this time," she said decisively, walking around the table to lead him out to the garage.

"As you wish," he said softly, following her out to his car.

--&--

She came out of the bathroom still wiping her not quite dry hands on her jeans and paused as she got to the end of the small hallway. She spied him placing money into the tip jar before smiling and thanking the guy behind the counter as he took hold of their drinks.

"I sincerely hope you aren't planning on going into any investigative reporting where stealth is involved," he slid the larger of the two cups in front of her as she sat down across from him at the small café table he'd sought out.

"Excuse me?"

"I saw you watching me."

"I wasn't watching you," she stressed the last word.

"What were you doing, then?"

"I was . . . fine. I was watching you. But not for the reasons you think I was," she informed him, chastising herself inwardly at her inability to lie. Sarcasm came easily to her, but lies were her kryptonite.

She was sure he had no such afflictions.

"You had reasons?" his eyebrows raised with his interest level.

"You think I would just look at you for the sake of looking? Like art?" she choked back a laugh.

"It's been known to happen," he contested, though his voice faltered.

"I was just thinking, well, wondering actually."

"Wondering what? If you tell me, I might be able to help you out. After all, I know me pretty well."

She took a sip of her coffee and shook her head. "It's not important."

"Rory, I thought this was a goodwill effort," he reminded her. "I'm trying, but you gotta help me out."

She smiled at the correct usage of her name, and the blush began creeping up her cheeks at the words she knew she was going to say.

"It's just, from what I've heard about you, I didn't expect you to act like this."

"I don't understand," he propped his elbows up on the table to lean closer to her. "How am I supposed to act?"

"I just meant, that this obviously isn't your first choice of things to do on a Friday night, and you seem like you're trying to do what you can to facilitate our project getting done. I had envisioned you racing through it to ditch me and get to your date or something. Instead you're here, buying me coffee, and debating the validity of the books you've chosen."

He scratched the back of his head with one hand. "I don't go out every Friday night. Even someone with," he paused and smiled—unable to help himself, "my reputation has to take breather every now and then. You know, to recharge."

"Right."

"So, what's a normal Friday night for you?"

"Uh, well, Fridays are the grandparent dinners. I came here straight from there, actually. It's why I couldn't meet right after school," she bit her lip.

"You have dinner with your grandparents every Friday night? Wow, you must be really close," he commented.

"Not really. I mean, my grandpa's cool, and we have a lot in common, but we're sort of obligated, my mother and I."

"Obligated? Now you're starting to sound like my family," he let out a huff of indignance. "Is that why you're never at any of the parties?"

"What?"

"The parties, there's one almost every weekend. And don't tell me you're not invited. I have proof to the contrary," he said, reminding her that he was right there when Madeline handed out the fliers for her last party and specifically asked her to come. "You like Madeline, I thought you'd be there."

Rory shrugged and took the lid off of her to-go, standard, chain-issue coffee cup to dip her finger into the whipped cream that had been added to the top of her caramel macchiato. She licked it off the tip of her finger and looked up at him. They exchanged a knowing look for a beat before she looked away and he shifted in his seat, trying to regain his composure. Realizing he'd been staring at her unconsciously suggestive actions, with a dropped open mouth and curious eyes, she suppressed a giggle at the thought that she could evoke such a response from him.

She had no idea.

"I thought about it actually, it just didn't work out."

"Your, uh, boyfriend didn't want to go?" he made boyfriend sound like a four letter word to her ears. She could definitely agree with the sentiment.

"I'm sure he didn't, since we broke up the night before."

Tristan's eyes flew back up to meet hers. It was clear to her then that he hadn't heard about the break up. It surprised her, as Paris and her underlings had found out, and she figured it'd be all over school by now. Especially after the way Rory had unwillingly bested Paris at the Winter Formal. Paris loved paybacks.

"Well, you should come to the next one," he suggested. "There's one next weekend, I think it's even at Louise's house."

"I'll think about it," she nodded in promise to consider it.

"So, what's with the obligation? Your inheritance in jeopardy if you don't check in or something?"

She shook her head, almost embarrassed to tell him the real reason. No one outside of Stars Hollow knew why they had to go to the elder Gilmore estate every week. "No, uh, when I got into Chilton, it was sort of a long shot, and my mother was short on the amount of money they wanted up front for my enrollment, so she had to go to my grandparents for the money. They agreed to pay for my schooling, if we agreed to the dinners. My mother sort of ran away from home when she was my age, with me, and they only usually saw us at Christmas from then on, until last September."

"No wonder you're so serious about school," he sat back and offered her a weak smile. He cleared his throat after a moment of uncomfortable silence. "I'm sorry that I've been so hard on you, you know, since you started."

"You are not," she smiled back. "You get some sick satisfaction in teasing me."

"I wouldn't call it satisfaction," he countered. "So, we should probably get back, to work and all," he said.

"Yeah, probably," she bit her lip out of habit when she wasn't sure what to say.

"Unless you wanted to, I don't know, hang out for a while. Do you need to be home soon?"

She checked her watch to take a moment to decide what to say. She knew exactly how late it was. She just didn't know how smart it was to agree to hanging out with Tristan DuGrey on a Friday night when they should be getting right back to study.

"I could go for another coffee," she smiled, causing him to nod and go back up to the counter to fulfill her request.

She was a smart girl, except when it came to him.


	3. Part Three

Summary: Trory. Set Season One Post-TBP2 and Pre-LDAT. The Kiss at Madeline's Party never happened for the purposes of this fic.

Disclaimer: I own no rights to anything that is mentioned in my stories, including the main characters that I've borrowed for my plot manipulations.

Rating: T (might be bumped up with future chapters. The jury's still out.)

Story Title: Untouched

Chapter Title: Part Three

AN: Oh, you guys rock! I love you all for all your varying opinions and reactions. And Miel, for helping me out with all this, and encouraging me when I need it. And Katherine for the fab picturesque inspiration! This would have been much longer in the making without those things. I hope you all enjoy!

He had no need for this.

He gripped the steering wheel tightly as he maneuvered the custom-crafted car around the twists and turns of the dark country roads. He was used to driving on streets and interstates—long, planned stretches. He balked in the face of change and refused to let it slow him down. Heading out on these paved cow paths just wasn't something that he normally did. Everyone in his world lived in the confines of a mapped out city.

Everyone but her.

It was a Saturday night, which in most cases (barring illness or family obligation) meant that he would be out with someone of the feminine and willing persuasions. There was no shortage of beautiful women that were looking for the kind of good time he provided, especially on a Saturday night. Hell, he'd had fourteen women call him between the end of school on Friday and ten minutes before he got into his car to 'make sure' of his unavailability.

He could have changed his mind at any time, picked anyone of them up and blown this off, ensuring his evening include his own release and a cigarette afterward. Of course, and perhaps it was because he knew this to be true that he agreed to the plans that he had, the fact was that the entire evening up until the inevitable ripping of clothes and searing skin he'd be mind-numbingly bored. A glaze would fall over his eyes until his companion whispered something salacious into his ear, bringing the gleam of lust (and nothing more) into his eyes until he found himself in the nearest out of the way place with a satisfied woman lying next to him, no doubt trying to bum a hit off his cigarette that he used to fill his body back up with something other than her.

He never shared his cigarettes. There was something too intimate about it that he felt no need to encourage.

It'd surprised even him when he made his first exception.

And now, as he neared the city limits of her town, he found himself wondering how many more of his rules he would find himself breaking for her. It'd started out simply enough. He offered to study with her again on Saturday, taking his part of the blame for the meager amount of work they'd gotten accomplished after their coffee break and before she had to get home for the evening.

She had a curfew. She obeyed her mother's wishes. It intrigued him, and before he knew what was happening, she was telling him that she normally would agree, but she'd committed to being at the Spring into Spring Carnival her town was putting on. He asked if she was manning the kissing booth, but she'd blushed and said that she was committed as a spectator only. And then she did the improbable. She asked him if he'd like to stop by.

This was the question. Was he willing to give up the comforts of his lifestyle for one evening, to travel into a strange world where money didn't matter and he had no guarantees of satisfaction past seeing her where she was happiest? The idea of giving in so easily to her request made him uneasy, like he was handing over the power to her.

And so he'd counter offered.

He told her that he'd stop by her town on this evening if she would accompany him to the party at Louise's house the following Saturday. She'd hesitated. He could tell she hadn't been wholly confident in her invitation in the first place. But he could also tell that she was considering acceptance of his new offer.

She'd run through the gambit of excuses for why she didn't want to go to one of 'those' parties. It wasn't her crowd. She hadn't been officially invited. She had too much homework to do, especially since she'd be giving up other nights to devote to their current project. He'd listened patiently as she talked herself first out of and then into going as her excuses began to sound as flimsy and dishonest to her as they did to him. After a long beat, she flashed him a hesitant smile and agreed.

He pulled to a stop along the curb near the town square, as per her directions, and locked his car via remote control. This very act garnered him a bevy of strange looks, ranging from amused to annoyed. It was an every day occurrence, something he would never think twice about, and yet he felt like he should be sliding back into his car to escape back to the world that he knew. This obviously wasn't it. He squared his shoulders confidently and looked around the skyline for a moment, seeking out the landmarks she'd mentioned.

And then he saw it.

She was clearly visible through the panoramic windows, laughing so hard that tears were streaming down her face, blurring her vision before they made their escape. She reached out to the woman next to her for support, but the woman began waving her arms wildly until a man approached their table, ultimately calming the women to the point of swallowed giggles.

He opened the door, a bell chiming his presence only a half a second before the hushed whispers began. Rory even looked up, startled to see him, before extracting herself from her seat and making her way to his side.

"You came," was her only greeting.

"I did," he nodded before leaning closer to her ear. "What is it with these people?" he whispered.

"Oh, they," she thought for a moment. "They're harmless. We're uh, just finishing dinner," she said, walking away from him and back to her seat.

Feeling his only lifeline in this sea of abnormality floating away, he moved to follow her and took a seat at her table. He received a tight smile from the woman sitting next to Rory, and was just about to introduce himself when a gruff voice boomed over his head.

"You eating?"

"I'm sorry?" he craned his neck to look up at the man that had calmed the women earlier.

"This is a diner. You came in on your own, unless you have some invisible kidnappers pointing a gun to your head. It's not a crazy question."

Lorelai giggled and pointed at Luke. "See? I am rubbing off on you! That was totally a Lorelai thing to say!" she nudged Rory. "Wasn't it?"

"'fraid so, Luke," she consented, her giggles returning as well.

"God help me. Eat off their plates, would you? Start with the coffee," he muttered before walking away.

"So, you must be Lorelai?" Tristan snatched a fry as directed off of Rory's plate, which earned him a smack to the back of his thieverous hand.

"I am. And you must be Tristan. I mean, not that we couldn't smell the money as you drove up."

"Excuse me?"

"It's why people are staring, sweetheart," the sarcasm dripped from her voice even as her tone dropped to a whisper.

"We should probably get out there. They just turned the lights on the Ferris wheel, which means everything's set up, and I don't want to miss Kirk's smack talk while trying to dunk Taylor at the Save the Bridge dunk tank," Rory pointed out the window. Tristan looked out, taking in the carnival that had indeed been set up in the middle of town. You could see what looked to be the whole town from this diner.

"Why don't you two go ahead, and scope out the good rides, try to con Eddie out of a couple of free cotton candies? I'm going to bug Luke some more. My quota for the day hasn't been met yet, and I can just feel that this will be the year I get him on the Tilt-A-Whirl."

"Oh, uh, sure," Rory said, clearly saying more with her eyes to her mother than she was uttering for the world, or most likely for him, to hear. But her mother just smiled and waved them off.

--&--

"So, Ferris wheel?" he offered once they'd strolled out into the open air.

"Uh, no."

"Got a fear of heights?"

"More like a fear of shoddy craftsmanship."

He tsked at her and grabbed her hand to pull her along after him. "You can't go to a carnival and not ride the Ferris wheel. It's un-American."

"Yeah, well, I thought I'd burn a flag and kick some puppies later, but first I was going to steal some candy from babies, so you see, I just don't have time to ride the Ferris wheel," she pulled her arm back in attempts to wrench it out of his grip.

He stopped, allowing her wriggling to cease for a moment, and stood directly in front of her so as to block her view of anything but him.

"I won't let anything happen to you."

He'd been going for a lighter tone than what had come out from between his lips and assaulted her ears. Sure, he had meant it in a 'dangling from the disjointed hinges of the unsafe contraption he was attempting to talk her into getting onto with him' way, but suddenly he realized it sounded more like he was offering to slip on a superhero costume and be her protector.

"You know, on the ride," he reiterated, trying to make it better, but from the look on her face he was only showing more of his introspective thoughts than hiding them.

She looked up at the wheel; at its swinging seats that creaked under the weight of those clambering onto the ride, its unpredictable stopping points, and its guarantee of getting away from the stares and whispers of the nosey townsfolk—even if they were just out of earshot. She looked back at his hopeful face.

"Okay."

He led the way to the ticket taker, and she forked over the four tickets from her stash that she'd bought on her way to the diner earlier. Taken off guard by her providing for him, he hesitated only slightly before offering his hand out to help her into the metal bucket that they were willingly placing themselves. She slid across to the far side of the seat and looked back at him expectantly, watching as he closed them into the ride and latched the metal lock securely in place on the door.

Neither spoke as the ride shifted around, moving them back and forth and higher at the same time. He took the time to truly get the bird's eye view of the town and marveled inwardly at how tiny it really was.

"So, this is where you live," he remarked.

"This is it."

"And that was your mom?"

"Yep."

She wasn't even looking in his general vicinity, but out over her side of the ride. Her curt responses made him begin to wonder why she'd even asked him to come along in the first place. Originally, by the way she'd said it, it was clear that the idea had popped into her mind the second before the words escaped her lips. She wasn't one to break a promise or not to follow through on anything. Was he here because she was too polite to rescind the offer upon further consideration?

The ride came to a sudden, lurching halt. The tiny modules shook harder back and forth, and he felt her hand clamp down on his arm. He looked down at her frenzied attachment and gave a soft chuckle.

"Why did it stop like that?" she asked frantically.

"It's okay. Haven't you been on one of these before?"

"No," she replied hastily. "Are you happy? I'm afraid of heights," she admitted.

"Then why did you agree to go on it?" he asked with sincerity.

Her gaze cut through him like a master chef filleting a fish. "You're kidding me, right?"

"No, I'm not kidding, you look terrified."

"Are you going to sit there and pretend that you would have given up on getting me to ride this rusty piece of crap?"

"Rory, calm down," he urged her, as her increased volume was drawing even more attention than before from those on the ground below them.

"Why did you even come here?"

"You invited me, remember?"

"I remember," she spat out, still gripping his arm like it would be the thing to save her if they began to plummet to their deaths.

"Why did you ask me to come? You obviously don't want me here," he said, not bothering to retract the digging of her nails into his flesh. He welcomed it; the pain, the stinging, the reality. Her very touch.

"I don't know, it's not like I planned it, I just did," she withdrew her hand from his arm and pulled it in to her own torso, nearly hugging herself. Fear and frustration shot through her body, and she felt no outlet for either. They just kept building, and she could feel her skin humming from their desire for emergence.

"I don't get it, Rory. What the hell did I do?"

His tone had gone from concerned to pissed, and as he scooted away from her to gain distance or perspective or anything else he wasn't going to achieve, his movements made the bucket sway harder again. He could see the visible tensing of her muscles and he couldn't help but feel relief at this power over her emotions.

"Nothing," she glowered.

"Fine," he said as he stood up in the rickety seat, causing her to reach her hands up and pull at the legs of his pants.

"Tristan, sit down! What are you doing?"

"Getting your complete attention," he informed her.

"Fine, you have it! Now sit!"

"Your complete attention?" he tested her, putting one foot on the opposite side and pushing off a bit, rocking them harder. Her grip got tighter on his jeans and she shook with fright.

"Yes," she hissed.

"What is it with you?"

"I told you, I'm afraid of heights!"

"No, other than that. Why did you invite me here?" he towered over her, gripping onto the support rods above him as he leaned closer to her.

"God, are we still on that? I told you, the idea just popped into my head and out it came," she said quickly, giving the fabric covering his calf another tug.

"Because I just don't get it. You normally can't wait to be rid of me. I mean, I know we agreed to be more cordial since we have to work together on the project, but that doesn't include hanging out apart from that."

"You were free to decline," she said through gritted teeth as he remained standing next to her.

"Did you," he began, but the Ferris wheel started up again at that moment, lurching them up higher into the air until it stopped violently again a few spaces up. Tristan's weight was shifted further than he thought, so he didn't compensate for the momentum, and he lost his footing. He managed to land hard on his butt next to Rory once again.

She let out a series of high squeaks during his ordeal, and when he landed he concentrated on his heart beating in his ears as she clutched the edge of the bucket and now his leg just above his knee. He began to laugh after a moment of focusing on his breath, and she shot him an evil glare.

"I'm sorry, it's not funny," he choked out, laughing harder now.

She raised an eyebrow at him, wishing now that he had fallen out of the unit. It would have served him right. He had some nerve, laughing at this. Here she was shaking with fright—which was heightened by his near accident—and he was laughing? She knew he had a sick sense of humor, but this was too much.

He put an arm around her and pulled her in to him, to calm her ignited nerves. She resisted his touch, but he remained with two arms wrapped around her until she stopped shaking.

"Better now?"

She reached out and punched his arm. He reeled back a little from the force he hadn't been prepared for from her.

"Shit! What was that for?"

"For scaring the hell out of me!"

She was still glaring at him, but when the wheel started up again, she scooted in closer to him, and he cautiously replaced one arm around her shoulders. Her heart continued to beat hard in her chest.

"I'm sorry. But admit it—it got your attention."

She muttered something under her breath, but he couldn't quite make out her words.

"What was that?"

"I said that you didn't need more attention drawn to yourself."

"Is that what you think of me? That I seek out attention?"

"Don't you?" she turned in to look at him skeptically.

He couldn't deny it, though he couldn't say it was his top priority.

Except when it came to her.

He wanted her to see him.

"I can't help it if people are naturally drawn to me. What would you have me do, walk around all day, ignoring people with my nose in a book?"

"I'm just saying, people tend to watch those who put on a show," she responded in kind.

"Yeah, everyone except you. You seem to have no trouble ignoring me."

She looked at him in surprise. "You think that is even possible? How can I ignore you? You're in my face fifty times a day, insulting me, arguing with me, or shoving some girl up against _my_ locker so that you can torture me by making me watch you stick your tongue down the flavor of the week's throat!"

He pulled her in closer, causing her to wriggle within the confines his embrace in protest, though not hard enough to pull away, out of her ongoing fear of literally rocking the boat. He leaned down so that he was nearly nose to nose with her and she suddenly stilled in his arms.

"Sounds like someone's jealous, Mary," he accused.

"I'm not jealous of those girls," she spoke softly, yet firmly. It seemed quite unnecessary to yell to get him to hear her.

He took in her comment, and was all set to respond in kind until he watched her gaze shift from his eyes to his mouth. He could feel her breath against his cheek, and he could feel the pull of her lips as she unconsciously rewet them with her tongue.

"Good. Because you shouldn't be," he informed her as she again met his eyes.

He could feel his heart beating against every pulse point in his body, so much so that he feared it was looking for an exit point. He let go of her body, leaving her sitting next to him in confounded silence.

Both sat determined not to touch as they waited out this newfound purgatory, though neither was sure what to do with themselves or the other once they were let out from the confines of this ride and were free to roam about on solid ground.

It was shakier than the swinging cart in which they were currently seated.

The ride began shifting around yet again, taking them up above the highest apex of the circle. He turned to look at her, finding her eyes squeezed shut in terror.

"Tristan?" she hedged.

"Yeah?"

"Can you . . . ?" she didn't open her eyes.

He nodded despite her inability to see his response and wrapped his arm around her once more, not letting go until they were safely stopped and let out of their cage.

He needed for her to need him.


	4. Part Four

Summary: Trory. Set Season One Post-TBP2 and Pre-LDAT. The Kiss at Madeline's Party never happened for the purposes of this fic.

Disclaimer: I own no rights to anything that is mentioned in my stories, including the main characters that I've borrowed for my plot manipulations.

Rating: T (might be bumped up with future chapters. The jury's still out.)

Story Title: Untouched

Chapter Title: Part Four

AN: I still maintain that you reviewers rock—the encouragement is more than touching. It's driving, seriously, because I've been unmotivated in other areas lately. So, thanks, over and over. I'm glad you're enjoying this. And I'm sorry this took so long. I had most of it done before last weekend, and then we went away, with no internet access before I got it finished. special AN: Thanks to Miel and Katherine, who will find a special, requested surprise in this chapter. Late night rambling rocks! Salute!

She kept her promises.

She was a woman of her word, always following through no matter how hectic her schedule became. She juggled an intensive homework and course load; participated in multiple charitable and social town activities; kept her mother from killing her grandmother every Friday night and otherwise occupied with movie marathons, junk food fests, and shoe shopping excursions; and still managed to have time to lay around on lazy Sunday afternoons, listening to music and swapping war stories and CDs with her best friend as they unwound down from one week and prepared to go into another.

No one was left out of her world. No one was disappointed.

She kept a balance, not only for her sake, but for those around her. Those important to her got her undivided attention, and all her goals were attended to in order of importance.

However, she was starting to notice the slight changes, after this one extra promise; this one slip into the unknown. With one smile at him she'd taken on one person that could disrupt her flow and take her away from all the others, even if it was just a little bit.

The one person that seemed hell-bent on keeping her off kilter.

The chain reaction was clear in her mind. Just having been with Tristan on Saturday night, she'd abbreviated her time with her mother, thereby cutting into her time with Lane on Sunday, which then kept her up into the wee hours of the night to get her piles of homework completed, and all this led to her sliding into her seat five minutes late to first period chemistry on Monday morning after having overslept.

"Miss Gilmore, I assume you have a tardy slip," Mr. Cox's voice rang out over the otherwise silent room. All eyes swiveled to her while she rifled through her book bag to pull out the crumbled paper she'd stuffed in there as she'd frantically ran to her locker to get the proper books and folders for her first two classes.

"Uh, yes, Sir," she said, smoothing it out as she walked up to the front to hand over the necessary form.

"Missed your bus?" he eyed her from over the top of the note.

"Um, yes, Sir. The first one ran early this morning," she lied, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

"Mmm-hmm. Well, let's not let this happen again, shall we?" Mr. Cox asked, letting her know his tolerance wore out after this first time. Perfection was expected. She nodded and scurried back to her seat, pulling on her goggles as her partner began collecting the necessary chemicals that the teacher had written out on the board.

"Buses sure aren't very reliable, are they?"

She jumped back at the sudden proximity of his voice. Her hand flew to her heart as she turned to face her fellow classmate that was hovering just above her shoulder.

"God, I need to get you a bell," she said, unzipping another pocket on her book bag to find a pen.

"You know, you should find a more dependable mode of transportation," Tristan said, not wavering in his efforts to keep her from class participation.

"What, like a donkey?"

"Nah, much too slow," he shook his head. "I was thinking more like a Mustang," he smirked.

"Right, I'll have my daddy order one when I get home, oh, whoops, how silly of me, I can't. He's in California. Looks like the bus will have to do."

"I meant get someone with a car to give you a ride," he leaned on the edge of her table with his elbows.

As if his proximity would help her harried mind come to a sharper focus.

"No one from this school lives out as far as I do, you know that," she pushed his elbows off the table so she could set down her notebook. "Shouldn't you be bugging your lab partner? Sweet-talking her to make sure she lets you sign your name to her work?"

"Just think about it, Mary," he said, taking his leave leisurely as she tried to pick up in the middle of the experiment that her partner had begun without her.

--&--

Her day was not off to a great start.

And somewhere in the back of her mind was a nagging voice that told her this was just the beginning of a very, very long week. It was only the end of third period and she'd received word of two more papers, three extra credit projects (which were things people like her never left uncompleted), and the promise of a pop quiz some time this week.

Reminding herself that this was what she'd wanted wasn't helping.

Neither were her attempts to avoid Tristan.

The very thought of his name made her groan, realizing that on top of everything else that was expected of her, there was still in the works project she had to find time to squeeze in again Friday night with Tristan after her grandparent dinner. They'd decided it was as good a time as any for them to meet, before he'd gotten in his car to leave on Saturday night.

Saturday night.

The idea of spending the following Saturday night at Louise Grant's party alongside Tristan made her stomach flutter like someone had let a cage of bats loose in there. The idea of being at one of those parties was nerve-wracking enough. She didn't see school as a social contact forum. She was here to drown in knowledge, and on days like this, she was feeling the asphyxiating effects of doing just that. But for people to see her with Tristan, that would only cause them to see her as one of his girls.

The kind of girls that he sported around for anywhere between one hour and two weeks, pressing their backs into anything solid so they can better feel the contrast of the liquid hardness of his body that he impressed into their fronts. Their willingness evident as the memories of the last time swept over their features, rolling their eyes back ever so slightly in their sockets.

She was never becoming one of those girls.

As much as she hated the idea of backing out of an obligation, it was one she'd made in obvious haste, spurred on by (what? It was that very thing that was plaguing her thoughts of late) whatever it was that made her temporarily insane. Her thoughts turned murky when she made attempts to make a solid argument for skipping out on her end of the bargain they'd struck.

Suddenly, however, she had excuses. Legitimate ones. Failure was legitimate. He took the same course load she did. He had to understand. She would go to him and explain. She couldn't fail. He would turn into the boy that seemed to look at her longer than to wonder what kind of underwear she wore under the plaid wool and see that she was a person that had needs.

And she needed not to fail.

"So, Rory, at long last we get you into our grips," came a feminine voice from the other side of her locker. She shut it to face none other than Louise Grant, self proclaimed sex kitten. It wasn't something she aspired to; it was a way of life for the girl. She had the face of an angel and the slink of a lioness. And ironically she was one of the few people Rory could tolerate at this school.

"Excuse me?"

"I hear you're finally coming to one of my parties. This Saturday?"

"Oh, uh, I was thinking about it, but," she shook her head, ready to right this wrong. She would practice her regretful declination on Louise and be fully prepared to face Tristan.

"You can come early, if you want. I mean, Madeline is constantly at my house, when I'm not at hers, and we'll be getting the house all ready," she smiled as if she was set to snag her next all-too-willing victim. "You're totally welcome. You could even borrow an outfit, if you want."

Rory blushed at the idea of wearing anything Louise might have picked out. Sure, they wore the same apparel at school, the standard uniform, but even that Louise managed to make look like she was stepping out of some middle-aged man's wet dream, where as Rory just looked like every other unfortunate sap that had to wear the standard issue prep school uniform.

No adjustments made or deemed necessary.

"That's okay. I don't think I can make it after all," she shrugged, picking her backpack up and slinging it over her shoulders.

"No! You have to come!" she reached out and touched her arm. "Tristan said you'd promised him you'd be there."

"Wait, Tristan told you?" she asked in sudden realization that Tristan had been talking to people about her. And him. And possibly their interactions the prior Saturday. She felt her hands go clammy and her blood drain from her ears. "What else, um, did he say?"

"Not much, just to expect you there, and that you didn't need directions 'cause he was going to be giving you a ride," she smirked knowingly. "Oops, I should go. See you at lunch," she clicked her tongue and took her leave, Rory now standing stupefied in her wake.

--&--

She considered her tactics.

This was going to be a volley match, she knew that. Will against will. He wasn't the type of person to let you off a hook. She took a breath, gathered her wits, and prayed that the events of last Saturday had somehow been forever misplaced in his memory.

"I need to talk to you," she informed him, businesslike and abrupt.

He turned from his friends at his lunch table where he stood, not sat, lording over his cronies. A pleased smiled overtook his face, and he crossed his arms.

"Finally, you've come to join us at the big kids' table," he nodded.

"Hardly. This'll just take a minute," she gestured toward the hallway.

Begrudgingly, he followed her away from his friends and out into the silence of the lunchtime hallway. He leaned into the row of lockers and raised his eyebrows for her to talk.

"Right. Listen. Louise came up to me earlier, in the hallway, and told me that she was looking forward to seeing me on Saturday."

He nodded and shrugged. "So?"

"So? Tristan, you can't tell people I'm going to things with you," she threw her hands up in the air in front of him.

"Why not?"

"Because, it's misleading," she was proud of herself for coming up with what seemed a solid argument on the fly. Damn the mucky, murky space that was her concentration right now.

"Misleading?"

His eyes were boring into her, watching her unravel herself from the inside out.

She took another breath.

"Yes. It gives the illusion we're together."

"Well," he began, his cocky head tilting to one side.

"Like last Saturday, you shouldn't go around telling people that we--," she gulped for air, trying to pinpoint the word that could describe the events of the prior weekend evening. No one thing had particularly happened between the two. But she couldn't say that nothing had happened either.

It'd been a shift of some kind; palpable, uncomfortable, and eye opening. An understanding, of sorts. Intriguing, perhaps. He wasn't looking like he was about help her with adjectives right now.

"You don't want people to know I came to Stars Hollow?" he asked to clarify.

"Right. I mean, not that I think you're going around telling people," she laughed nervously. "Are you?"

"Why would I do a thing like that? I mean, how would that look for my reputation?" he practically snarled, as he got her meaning. "Me wasting my time in a hayseed farm town, chasing after a Mary?"

"I just thought," she began, seeing his seething response. "Maybe I shouldn't go on Saturday."

He shook his head. "You're backing out?"

"You really want to be stuck with me all evening, who'll be having a miserable time with all the drunk idiots around her, wishing she could just curl up with a good book and disappear?"

"Well, it sure beats being sticky in a vat of pudding," he snipped.

"Excuse me?" the visual hit her perhaps harder than she wished it would have, from all the way out there in left field.

"Or is it Jell-O wrestling you're expecting? Beer bongs, mosh pits, drunken brawls, stale chips?"

"Can you make a point, please?" came her vexed plea.

"Why are you so quick to judge these parties and these people? You've never made any effort to be anywhere near them," he shot back.

"That's not--," she began, but he put his hand up to stop her.

"And don't say you've tried with me. You haven't even scratched the surface," he said definitively. "I'll see you Friday night. I have to go."

And with that, he took left her standing for the second time that day, gaping in shock.

--&--

She began to wonder if she could get herself grounded and therefore automatically made unable to go to this party. She began to think up scenarios that would cause Lorelai to ground her, but for all her effort in the last ten minutes of nothing but concentration on this one task, she came up with nothing.

At least nothing that didn't involve Tristan.

But it was a good distraction from the events of this horrible day that she literally felt like taking a long, hot bubble bath to get off of her. Instantly the idea was formed, she could take her Spanish notes in with her and knock out two birds with one stone.

"You waste a lot of time doing this, you know," came the now familiar voice that seemed to haunt her mind in-between actual run-ins.

"Your deductive skills are top notch, where did you learn that, Super Sleuth School?"

"And she finds her witty repartee," he smirked. "It's been missing all day, maybe you left it under that bus bench. You know how things fall through the cracks sometimes," he drummed his fingers on his steering wheel.

"Something I'm sure you know all about," she smiled, looking back down at her history book.

"Get in."

"No."

"Why not?"

She looked up at him again, her eyes clouded with doubt. "Because I don't need you to give me a ride home. I'm fine on my own."

"No one has to know," he said cryptically, causing her to lock her eyes on his in a moment of what she could only liken to understanding.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Get in and I'll explain it to you," he offered, baiting her.

She knew he was watching her decide. Watching her cave. He was right. The bus was the most massive waste of time in the world, as far as losing precious study time in the comfort of her own home. She'd come to think of it as a fitting transition time, the forty-five minutes each way being stuck in this place that was so generic, so devoid of labels, as she shed her home life for her school life or vice versa. Like Superman's phone booth.

"Fine," she said, not looking at him as she moved to open the door and he took her bag from her so she could ease into the seat. A feeling of déjà vu hit her as he lifted the weight that sometimes felt like the cross she bore out of her hands and tossed it easily into the back.

"This is getting to be a habit," she crossed her arms over her chest and turned to look at him. "Is this some sort of community service? You got in trouble and now you have to help someone less fortunate? Should I expect about 120 hours worth of car rides?"

"You know, you look like such a sweet girl on the outside," he shook his head, trailing off leadingly.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Why can't you just accept a ride graciously?"

"Because I know you."

He looked at her with widened eyes for a beat before returning his eyes to the road in front of him. She continued to feel the weight of his eyes even after they left her.

"You know me, or you know what people say about me?"

She had no answer for that. She hated being judged solely on appearances and social standing. It was against all she claimed to stand for. And he was calling her on doing just that to him.

"You don't seem to deny it," she said quietly.

"I'm not ashamed of my exploits," he shrugged.

"So, you're saying it's all true?"

He was right; part of her was dying to know. That was the thing about myths and legends. It fascinated her to find out the seed of truth that spiraled them into such creative, outlandish tales.

"I've never said a damn thing about any single girl I've ever been with. So, anything you might have heard is just a representation of how I make them feel when they're with me. Is there anything wrong with making a girl feel wanted in the exact way she dreams of?"

Her mouth had gone dry at his words. She swished her tongue around in her mouth in attempts to not choke on her next question.

"You're barely with these girls, how can you claim to know what each girl wants?"

"After a while it gets really easy to know what a girl wants. All you have to do is pay the slightest bit of attention. I can tell after about five minutes what it is a girl is looking for. After that, you just kind of have to let the hormones take over," he shrugged. "And voila, a legend is born."

She ignored his last comments, stuck on his revealing it just took slight attention to detail to be able to bring women to heights of such great passion they'd never before known.

"Five minutes?"

"Give or take. Some girls are much easier to read. Take you, for example."

Now she knew her cheeks were flaming. "Me?"

"To look at you, on first appearances, you look like a sweet, innocent girl that wants to blend into her surroundings. Generally, that means that you want time taken. A slow seduction. Every last inch of your skin attended to. Long, slow, sweeping motions. Being taken to the brink of pleasure over and over, starting over when it gets too much, so when you finally tip over the edge, you aren't just getting off on my touch, you're getting off on the knowledge that I found you so singularly desirable that I took the time to make you feel like the only person in this universe."

She knew he was waiting for her reaction. She felt his eyes once again on her. He saw her hands gripping the leather of the seat underneath her, the only stabilizing factor in her world right now, her closed eyes that were currently a display for the scenarios he'd been describing.

What's worse was, she knew he _saw_ her.

"Am I right?" he asked finally, slowing the car down to the appropriate speed as he neared the street she lived on, all the landmarks looking comfortingly familiar to him now.

"I, uh, don't know," she relented softly.

He nodded and put the car into park. "I do," he brushed her shoulder with his forearm as he retrieved her bag from the back. "So, are we still on?"

She nodded, knowing he meant more than just their Friday evening study session. She took the bag from his hands and exited the car in a hurry, off to reap the benefits of his generosity.

She knew this was one promise he would hold her to.


	5. Part Five

Summary: Trory. Set Season One Post-TBP2 and Pre-LDAT. The Kiss at Madeline's Party never happened for the purposes of this fic.

Disclaimer: I own no rights to anything that is mentioned in my stories, including the main characters that I've borrowed for my plot manipulations.

Rating: T (will be bumped up with future chapters.)

Story Title: Untouched

Chapter Title: Part Five

AN: I know you're all dying to see Louise's party. And you will. Just not yet. It's a slow build, but one that I hope is worth it. Thank you for your patience. And your amazing reviews.

Everything in his life was a competition.

Not that he could honestly remember a time that he had to put forth much effort for which to strive ahead of his other competitors in any area. When he found himself growing bored of the monotony of contending against those without the same skills and abilities as he held, he found ways to compete with himself.

Reach farther.

Push harder.

The fact that it was expected of him, success and adulation, that wasn't what drove him. To be honest, he didn't care if he got the top grade, fastest time, or highest score. All that mattered to him, all that was left for him to do, was to feel it.

He wanted to feel the vexing of his muscles as he reached and pushed, the exquisite rush that comes with pain, the sadness that comes with true pleasure. He wanted these things to overcome his body, in ways he'd yet to experience, and just once know he'd beat himself.

In the beginning, upon first seeing her walk into his classroom, she was just any other new girl. A distraction, welcome and sure to be fleeting, as the girls in his life tended to be. He scoffed at the idea of having a specific girl in his life. Girls were interchangeable, none able to make a distinct enough mark to keep him coming back. The only goal was to achieve domination faster than he had over the last unsuspecting girl, to make her scream louder, grip his shoulders harder, make her shake longer with overcoming sensation. He was growing weary of even this.

When she began her resistance, unending and scathing, his fur was ruffled. He felt the tinge of true competition and a hint of her ability to reveal him for what he was—not the king, but merely one of the others that had been given too much. Her influence on him was her stark contrast. Her innocence to his gratuity.

It kept him coming back.

It's not that they were on separate levels of innocence. While it was true that they were born into varied worlds, with different barricades for how much would be filtered for their growing ears and eyes. A difference of mindsets. Nothing had ever been shielded from him. He was expected to learn through trial by fire. Deal with whatever was thrown to him with no warning. Hurt or be hurt.

He could tell from the flash in her eyes at the very lexis that flowed from his lips that she was still shockable. That despite her great quest for knowledge she hadn't been exposed to the truly ugly, the truly evil, or the truly hard.

She wasn't out to conquer, merely rise above.

She could feel, taste, and touch.

Now it was about living vicariously.

She looked nervous when he answered the door. He could see plainly that one edge of her lower lip was darkened from her having worried it in the recent past. He could practically taste the metallic tinge of blood that seeped up through the cracks on a wound such as that. He ran a knuckle under the bottom of his own lip and extended his other arm in greeting for her to pass through. He received a nod and the lightest scent of her perfume that lingered on the breeze she created with her haste to pass.

"Where's your car?" he asked before closing the door.

"What?" she turned in her tracks, now shrugging off her jacket to reveal a form-fitting dress that seemed polar opposite from what he normally saw her in. It made her appear softer, more feminine.

"I don't see a car, and you're all dressed up. What, do you have a date picking you up later?" he teased, only half-worried.

She gave a blush of frustration. "No, but my mom does, so she dropped me here straight from the grandparents. I'm taking a bus back home."

"Your mom has a date?" he inquired.

"Yeah," she looked down, making it obvious that she would be thrilled for the line of questioning into the matter to be dropped at the confirmation.

"Don't buses stop running after a certain point at night?" he pulled his shirt sleeve up enough to reveal the face of his wristwatch. "It's already--," he began.

"If it's too late, I'll just call my grandfather and spend the night there, this isn't that big a deal," she cut him off. "Now, shouldn't we get to work?"

"Right, work. The dining room, you know your way," he nodded through to the main entry as he shut the door behind her.

--&--

Each had been writing for the better part of the last forty-five minutes, taking notes from the open books spread out all around them, developing their section of an outline from the agreed upon points they'd decided to cover in their last meeting.

His concentration was waning on the page he was staring at. He'd read the last sentence in the third paragraph fifteen times. His eyes wandered, not under his control, to the neckline of the dress she was wearing. The dress she'd chosen, knowing that she would be coming to his house at the end of the evening. He wondered if his words in his car earlier in the week had affected her choice, even in the slightest.

He'd seen his effects.

He'd watched the evidence of her defenses lowering, her entire body reacting to just his words alone. Her active imagination able to practically grant her the feel of his hands running over her body just at his very mention.

He wanted so much to feel it too.

She looked up from her notes, again able to feel his eyes on her he was sure, and he quickly averted his gaze back to his half-filled notebook page. By the time he again dared to look her way, she was caught back up in her reading, but he began to notice that her pencil had remained stilled since she caught him peeking. It was unlike her.

Unless . . . .

"You okay?"

She looked up again, relief mixing with doubt in her irises. "I'm good."

"God, I'm sorry, you want something to drink, or eat?"

She shook her head in the negative. "No, I'm fine. It's just, it's really quiet in here, isn't it?"

He watched as she looked around the cavernous room, the only sound coming from the grandfather clock in the main entryway. He was used to the quiet of his looming family home.

"Yeah, the servants usually leave after dinner is served. I don't need them around after that, so no matter what my parents' instructions are, I let them go," he nodded.

"You mean, it's just us here?"

He didn't miss the panic in her voice. No one would be able to mistake the tinge that all her muscles tightening at once caused.

"Yeah, so?"

"Where are your parents?"

He shrugged and brought his hands up to rub his temples. "Uh, I would guess somewhere in Europe, but to tell you the truth, it doesn't really matter."

"What do you do in this house all by yourself?" she shivered at the very thought.

"I'm just here to eat and sleep, really. It's actually quite preferable to my parents being around, relax. I'm not feeling neglected or anything," he assured her.

"Yeah, but don't you ever get, lonely?"

He heard it. No sarcasm. Nothing biting about her tone. Only concern.

Something inside him swelled, something unfamiliar.

"I guess. I mean, my grandfather lives about five minutes away, I see him once a week, our night is Wednesday," he smiled at her, acknowledging her similar arrangement. "My parents come home to check in every now and then, shed their disapproval and ship back off on the next obligation trip."

"Wow. I can't imagine. I mean, I guess I can. That's sort of how my father's visits are, except, I always know where he's going, and it's my mother that's disappointed," she rambled quickly, stopping just as fast as she'd started.

He watched her closely, as if she might leave her seat suddenly. She looked like she'd just let loose a matter of National Security.

"If the quiet bothers you, we can move to a room with music or something," he offered after a moment of her sustained quiet with no attempts to go back to the work in front of her.

She gave a weak smile and nodded. "That'd be good," she began to gather her books, closing them in the place she was taking notes from over her oversized notebooks, in effect merely pausing her work. He mimicked her efforts and led the way to the main staircase.

"Where are we going?" she stopped shy of stepping onto the first mahogany rise.

"My room. It has the best sound system, and all the good CDs. Unless you like listening to Barry Manilow and ABBA," he shuddered at the thought.

"Barry Manilow and ABBA?"

"My parents, for as wealthy as they are, can't buy taste," he offered. "I have a desk and a sofa in my room, it's not like we'll be all sprawled out on the bed," he assured her.

He watched as his words again planted seeds of possibility in her mind.

Evidently it wasn't as difficult a choice as she'd hoped it would have been.

"Yeah, okay. I don't think I could get much studying done to 'Dancing Queen' and 'Mandy,'" she joked, lightening the mood as she followed him up the impressive staircase and down the wide hallway to his room.

--&--

He knew he was being judged.

He stood next to his open bedroom door, watching her as she moved about the room, fingertips running along built-in bookcases, eyes widening at familiar and perplexing items, the blush that crept over her as she stumbled upon the stack of clean underwear and jock strap that had been deposited on the foot of his bed by the maid before she left for the evening.

She offered him a smile when she finished her inspection. "Where are your CDs?"

He nodded and moved to one of the cabinets on the far wall of his bedroom. He opened it, revealing his stereo and more built-in racks the perfect height for CD cases. "Take your pick. Anything but heavy metal. I can't study to anything that makes you want to head bang," he wagged a finger at her as she approached the display.

"Weenie," she teased.

It was one word, not one he would count as being encouraging in any other frame of reference, but her tone for once seemed to be showing an inlet as opposed to the wall that she was ever trying to construct between them. Even when he thought he was getting to her in the past, she had managed to later make him feel like he'd been hallucinating the lack of hostilities.

"Wow, you have more CDs than Lane, and I dare to say, a wider selection," came her amazed tone from her spot rooted still in front of the music collection.

"Lane?"

She turned to give him an embarrassed smile. She was smiling more in his presence, he noted.

"My best friend, she's something of an audiophile," she tilted her head to one side in consideration. "A closet audiophile."

"What does that mean? She's afraid of what people will think of her taste?" he teased back.

"Not people so much as her mother," she nodded in agreement and went back to her arduous task.

He went back to observing her as she tried to make her decision. Studying her was holding his attention so much better than a book ever could.

She had narrowed her eyes, to focus more sharply on what was before her perhaps, not to let any competing images interfere with her appointed duty. One leg had jutted out in front of the other, posing her in an off balance tilt. As if her body was in just as much agony over which way to position itself as her mind was over which music would aid their study session.

"If you like, I can pick something," he offered, as much as he hated to cause her legs to shift back to an even stance, allowing her skirt to fall back down from its elevated hike back down to just below her knees as she turned to look at him, two CD cases in her hands.

"I have it narrowed down to two. I just can't pick," she scrunched her nose.

"_Sixteen Stone_ and _Kick_," he nodded, reading them from her upheld hands. "Pretty boy rockers?"

"They're your CDs," she laughed, thrusting them closer to his face as if to reiterate her inability to choose between them.

"Lucky for you, I have a CD changer. No choices necessary."

"Oh. Well, good then," she handed over the cases and moved past him to settle herself onto the couch to resume their study session.

He turned back, hearing the familiar opening chords to "Everything Zen" humming in the background to see her sprawled out on his couch, having made herself at home. Her hair was flipped back and splayed out, hanging over the arm of the couch, her feet resting on a pillow on the other end, her book propped up on her lap with a pencil in between her teeth as she too murmured along with the guitar riffs.

She looked like a vision. Comfortable in his room.

"So, this better?" he ventured, moving to take a seat at his unoccupied desk.

"Much, thanks," she nodded, looking up from her book. "You don't mind this, do you? I mean, my being in your room?"

Thoughts raced through his mind, as how best to answer that question. There was a certain vibe between them now, something he dared not decimate with a solitary lewd statement like how he'd dreamed of her like this, in his room, minus the study materials and clothing.

Not that it wasn't true.

"Why would I mind?" he ventured.

She shook her head and seemed to be talking herself out her line of reasoning. "No, no reason. It's just, I felt kind of weird about it myself. You know, having someone looking at all your personal stuff. Things you've had longer than you can remember, personal effects, embarrassing photos, stuffed chickens," she mused, her eyes widened with a sense of recollection filling them.

"I'm sorry, stuffed chickens?"

"It was an example," her voice threatened the willingness to cut off the easy going conversation and relinquish him back to a strictly study buddy position.

"So, who was snooping around your room?"

"Oh, you know, Dean," she said quickly, self consciously. "You know, once."

The all too recent memory of his run-in with her ex-white knight at the school's Winter Formal surged up in him like acid burning its way up his esophagus. "Yeah, I know Dean," he nodded.

"Sometimes it's unnerving to me, having someone see too much of my life like that, you know? Your room, it's your sanctuary," she confided.

"You're afraid someone will see too much?" he asked, his eyes warm as they remained trained on her.

"No, not like that, but people should have to earn their way into positions of trust, right?"

"And you didn't trust him?"

She didn't answer for a long time. So long, in fact, that he thought she was evading his question altogether.

Maybe she didn't trust him enough to give him a response.

"I guess not."

"Is that why you broke up with him?"

She shook her head, and he became fearful that she was on the verge of tears.

He never was good with tears.

"I didn't, I mean, he broke up with me," she said quietly.

"Why?" he asked, perhaps too loudly, out of surprise at the notion in general.

"What do you mean, why? He didn't want to be my boyfriend anymore. End of story," she attempted to bring her book back up, blocking her line of sight with him. As if a book would subvert him.

"Bullshit."

"What?"

There was that look again. Fascination and alarm.

"I said, bullshit. I saw him with you at the winter formal, remember? No way did _that_ guy decide that he just didn't want to be with you anymore. What happened?"

Another pause. Except this time he knew what that meant.

She took time in gathering her courage—but he had her trust. Unwillingly and to her surprise it seemed at times, but even so. It was there.

"He, uh, he was ready for more than I was," she began slowly, "And when I couldn't reciprocate, he um, he got mad, then it was over."

Now it was her turn to watch him. A study in rage. Suddenly he was pale, yet radiating; his fists clenched around the rung on the back of his desk chair.

"Mother fucker, that asshole's dead," he growled, his eyes closing and reopening to focus on hers.

"Tristan," she said on an inhale, shaking her head.

"Rory, tell me exactly what he did," he instructed. There was no permission being sought out.

"Tristan, really, nothing--," she began only to get cut off.

"I need to know exactly what he tried, so I know how best to kill the bastard," he said louder.

She looked down, casting her gaze away from him, clearly too ashamed to lay out details.

"Rory?"

"He just, he told me he loved me."

"And then?" he egged her on, knowing that as the oldest trick in the book as a starting point to this particular game some of his peers played.

"And then? And then I couldn't say it back, and he got mad and stormed out of the car and broke up with me," she all but yelled, the memories too fresh in her mind.

He felt it. Her rage, her pain, it saturated his skin, and he watched helplessly as she started to weep openly on his couch. In his room.

"I shouldn't," she began, her book falling from her lap as she leapt up, the back of her hand raised to cover her lips.

"Hey, it's okay," he said, in his best attempt at empathy, moving to pull her against his chest. He felt a strange urge to hold her against his body, to let her focus on the sound of his heart beating, to stroke her hair until her breath fell evenly once again.

She shirked back from his touch on her shoulder, and in an instant was through his door, looking back at him. "I have to go."

And then she was gone.

This was one game he wasn't sure he could play.


	6. Part Six

Summary: Trory. Set Season One Post-TBP2 and Pre-LDAT. The Kiss at Madeline's Party never happened for the purposes of this fic.

Disclaimer: I own no rights to anything that is mentioned in my stories, including the main characters that I've borrowed for my plot manipulations.

Rating: T (will be bumped up with future chapters.)

Story Title: Untouched

Chapter Title: Part Six

She never let herself be led astray.

Truth be damned was not her motto. In fact, the only way that she could ever lie was by omission. She didn't believe in it, it wasn't who she was. It wasn't even that she sought out truth; she sought out to be a pillar of the attribute, an example to be held up against. Already in training for her journalistic integrity.

She knew it was a fine line between total honesty and giving away too much. She had plunged over that line the night before with the one person in her life she owed nothing except her cooperation on the Lit Class presentation. She told him in a one hour window more than she'd told anyone close to her—more than Dean, more than Lane, even more than her mother. She'd kept in the reason behind her break up with her boyfriend for a couple of weeks now, letting it eat at her, feeling increasingly more relieved at the outcome. Unfortunately the relief came at the cost of immense guilt.

She'd been leading Dean on.

It hadn't been intentional. Most of the time she did enjoy his company and he was more than respectful of her. Except when it came to her time. He wanted to spend every free moment with her. He wanted to bask in her presence, shower her with attention, and be the only boy that came into her view.

He was in love with her.

His confession of such emotion wasn't the first time she realized it as a fact. She knew from the way he looked at her, the way he massaged the back of her hand with his thumb when they held hands, his look of excitement when they got her house to themselves for an hour here and two hours there.

She'd read books about great loves. Clandestined couples, tackling great odds to be together, to unify their love. Using them as text books didn't work.

She didn't even want to walk five minutes to meet him at Luke's for coffee some days, let alone move mountains and forge rivers to be with her one and only. There was no way she was in love. She had no personal frame of reference to what it felt like to be in love—it seemed like some place you have to travel to in order to see it for yourself. Spaceships might be involved for all she knew. She thought about asking him what it felt like, but feared giving up her good face, disappointing him.

She was fine with kissing him back, squeezing his hand, calling him after he left five messages on her pager, and letting him come over after he got off work.

But when it came to his bearing his soul, being brave, and putting himself out there—she froze instead of telling him that she just didn't feel the same way. She hadn't wanted to hurt him. But that night even her usual tactic of omission couldn't save Dean from her true feelings.

She wasn't the kind of girl that hurt people. She hated seeing people in pain, and the thought of being the cause of such pain as she watched wash over Dean's face that night was excruciating.

Spilling her guts to Tristan felt good. And that just scared her even more. She had thought about the fact that she'd stormed out not only on him, but their study session and all of her personal belongings later, as she sat shivering against the cold vinyl of the seats without her jacket on the last bus to Stars Hollow that evening. She was more than relieved not to have to answer any questions from her mother as to why she was shaking with tears upon her arrival home that night. Her mother was out on a date with her English teacher. At least she hadn't spilled all of that information to Tristan.

She couldn't keep this up. She wasn't comfortable with the ease at which she let him into the inner workings of her mind, her fears, and her life. There was no way she could see him outside of school anymore. And there was no way in hell she was going to Louise's party with him tonight.

And that was exactly why she had turned her cell phone off after he called an hour ago, not even bothering to see if he left a message.

She had the entire day to herself, her mother rushing out of the house only five hours after she'd finally returned, yelling about needing more coffee than she'd ever ingested in one sitting before and the fact that their beloved coffee maker still hadn't been looked at by the appliance doctor, better known to the women as Luke Danes. She continued to yell about a note that would explain more as she darted out the door. Rory heard her Jeep fire up and then she was gone, leaving Rory to transfer her pity party from her bedroom to the couch, still in her pajamas as she hauled all the left-over Chinese food in the refrigerator out and arranged it in a smorgasbord in front of the TV.

After she turned her phone off and finished off the last of the Szechwan Chicken she considered calling Luke's to get her own vat of coffee delivered. Not that Luke's regularly delivered, but for her and her mother an exception was made. Her fingers rested on the talk button of the cordless phone as a _True Hollywood Story _for Johnny Depp came on the screen, momentarily distracting her attention. She jumped in her seat a bit as the doorbell rang. Keeping hold of the phone she got up slowly, watching old clips of _21 Jump Street_ flash across the scene.

The knocking continued, getting louder with each subsequent rap. Groaning, she backed her way to the front door, still clutching the phone in one hand and the remote in the other.

"God, Mom, I don't know what your problem is, but I'm going to have Luke install one of those fingerprint touch pads in our front door so it won't matter where you mysteriously leave your keys," she half-yelled as she opened the front door.

She wasn't prepared for him to be here. Unanswered phone calls were supposed to give a certain message. Unavailable. Don't call me, I'll call you.

"Bad time?"

She blushed as she looked down at her own apparel. It was after one in the afternoon and she was clad in monkey pajamas and her hair was piled up on top of her head in the laziest hairstyle ever fashioned.

"What are you doing here?"

"I'm here to pick you up for the party," he replied nonchalantly.

She gaped at him. "It doesn't start for like six hours."

He shrugged. "Thought you might require a bit of convincing beforehand. Aren't you going to invite me in?"

"No," she crossed her arms.

"Come on, Mary, I promise not to go into your bedroom. You know, unless invited," he smirked.

"Goodbye, Tristan. Have fun at the party," she said, kicking the door so it would slam closed in his face, but he caught it with an open palm against the translucent glass.

"We're not done here, Rory. You promised me your attendance," he reminded her.

"Well, what can I say, Tristan? I'm not feeling up for a crowd of people. I'll have to sit this one out and catch the next one to see who Muffy's boffing," she told him.

"Fine. But remember, you owe me. The next party is at Josh Hamilton's house. You know, he has this rule where you can't get through the door without doing a Jell-O shot. And his parents have had this viewing room built into their basement, he uses it for a group version of Seven Minutes in Heaven," he tested her.

She groaned, turned on her heel, and stomped off into the living room. The front door was left open, and she knew he would take it as an invitation to come in. She flopped onto the couch again, her former spot still warmed from her time of habitation, and grabbed the box of egg rolls.

"Tell me you at least brought coffee," she bit into the lukewarm shell.

"Coffee and Chinese food? What are you, pregnant?"

"Just another brunch at the Gilmore house," she informed.

He stood next to the couch, looking around her house. She grew uncomfortable, feeling the scrutiny they'd discussed the prior evening beginning, and he was nowhere near her bedroom.

"How did you find my house, anyhow?"

"I uh, went back to the diner in the center of town, and I asked someone for directions."

Her eyes shot up to meet his as he continued to stand over her, behind the couch. "Who?"

He shrugged. "She kept asking me to call her Patricia," he frowned. "Sort of a boisterous, older woman. I'm pretty sure she wanted me to make a pit stop at her house first," he chuckled.

"Safe conclusion."

"Anyhow, she said to tell you she was impressed at your choice of male companions. Then she asked me when I'll turn 18."

Rory had to giggle at this. Having Tristan standing in her living room telling her stories of Ms. Patty working on getting into his pants was beyond even her very capable imagination. She picked up the box of egg rolls and held it out to him.

A peace offering.

He took one, and bit into it. "Not bad."

"It's from Al's Pancake World."

"I'm starting to see why you're so odd," he confided, moving to sit on the arm of the couch.

"My dad threatened to take me out of here, he thinks everyone's too nutty and I'm not safe here."

"He might have a point. Are there any men roaming around as sex-hungry for teenage girls as this Patricia is for teenage boys?" he raised an eye.

She shook her head. "Nope. Besides, anyone who would dare to get near me would have to suffer the wrath of Luke."

"The diner guy?"

"The very same."

He took another bite of his egg roll and she watched as he shifted on the hard seat. She scooted over to the middle of the couch and removed the blanket that she'd used earlier to cover up with to make room for him next to her.

"So, you were going to convince me?"

He nodded, accepting each small invitation she extended to him as he sat down on the only slightly more comfortable cushion.

"You promised," he pointed the half-eaten egg roll at her.

"So you've never broken a promise before?"

"My behavior isn't being discussed here. Yours is."

"I don't see why you're pushing this issue," she sighed, muting the television. No way was she turning off Johnny Depp. Such things just were not done in the Gilmore house.

"You don't want to come with _me_," he said knowingly.

"It's not that I don't want to go with you—it's more that I don't want to go to one of those parties."

She watched her last statement register with him. He popped the rest of the egg roll into his mouth as he seemed to be considering something.

"Can I ask you a question?"

"If I said no, I can't imagine that would dissuade you, now would it?" she picked up the box of noodles and raked a fork over the contents, bringing nothing up to her mouth.

"Fine, if I ask you something will you answer me honestly?" he rephrased.

"Of course," she said quietly, now meeting his eyes.

"Did I do something that upset you last night?"

It had never occurred to her that he might have felt responsible for her abrupt departure. She figured he thought she was crazy, overly emotional, irresponsible, a mess. A billion other negative terms concerning her behavior sprung to her mind.

She pulled her knees up to her chest and leaned forward to rid her hands of the carton she'd eaten nothing from, and then wrapped her arms around her legs.

"Because I didn't mean to upset you, I just," he paused, and she took his loss for words as an opportunity to meet his eyes. "I was worried about you."

"Oh," she nodded slightly, still not unfurling her body.

"I mean, it had to be me, right? I asked what happened, and you ran away crying. I shouldn't have made you talk about it," he conceded.

"No, it was good, actually," she bit her lip and swiveled her hips in order to face him.

There she went again. She began to wonder if she had some strange strain of Terret's Syndrome, but with honesty. But if she was going to be honest with herself as well, she knew it was too late to go back now.

He had become her confidant.

"Good?" He didn't appear to believe her.

"Yeah, I haven't really talked about what happened with Dean. I've kept it bottled up, feeling bad about it," she couldn't keep his gaze and kept darting her eyes from her lap back up to his face.

"Why on earth would you feel bad about what happened? You were just honest with him; it would have been wrong for you to tell him you loved him, you know, when you didn't."

She nodded. She'd come to this conclusion herself. It didn't make the hurt on Dean's face easier to bear.

"He was still really upset," she brought her shoulders up closer to her ears as if she was trying to curl further into a ball. Like she might collapse into herself, creating an outer shell akin to that of a turtle. It must be nice to be able to hide like that when spooked.

"He's a big boy, he'll get over it. And so will you."

He'd settled in, his comfort seemingly growing more with her own ease. A platitude that her grandmother spouted about the hostess' duty to be composed in order to put her guests at ease as well sprung to mind. His arm was now slung across the back of the couch, his hand resting just above her right shoulder.

"Promise you won't think I'm a horrible person?"

His eyes widened. "I can't even envision it."

A soft smile spread across her face. He was being sweet to her. It was a side of him that intrigued her. She dared to say she enjoyed his soft underbelly as much as she couldn't help but be drawn to his hard exterior.

"I was never upset because he didn't want to be with me anymore. In fact, I was kind of relieved."

"So, you didn't trust him and you didn't want to be with him? Stop it, I'm starting to feel sorry for the guy," his sarcasm came pouring out.

"Sort of. I mean, I liked Dean. And it was," she paused, truly looking for the right word. There was nothing negative about how she felt for Dean, but it hadn't been right either. "Comfortable."

"Sounds exciting," he teased.

"You have no idea," she volleyed back, tossing her head to one side only to realize her hair was still sloppily pulled back up off her neck. One hand flew to release her locks from the ponytail holder and the other went to the collar of her pajama top.

"I should probably go and uh, change," she blushed.

"So, you're coming to the party with me?" he ventured hopefully.

"Tristan, even if you had convinced me to go, we wouldn't leave now, I mean, it doesn't start for hours."

"I can think of some things we could do to kill the time. You don't seem to have any other pressing plans. And besides, you've still never given me a valid reason for your absence tonight."

"I have nothing to wear," she rolled her eyes, trying to put him back on his guard. Perhaps she could vex him into storming out of her house and leaving her be with her lack of plans. "And I have to wash my hair."

"I can help you with both of those problems," he winked at her, and she wondered how difficult it was for him to suppress such lecherous actions.

"You really need to brush up on your persuasive speaking skills," she informed him.

"You really want to sit here all day in your PJs, sulking about something that isn't your fault for no good reason?"

"Hey, you're the one sitting here watching me be pathetic," she scowled.

"I never said you were pathetic," he assured her. "Besides, I like your pajamas. I'm seeing a whole other side to you," he smirked and let his hand drop down to rest on her shoulder, squeezing it slightly before rubbing his palm over the flannel material.

She jumped up at his touch and moved past him. "I'm just going to go get changed, and when I get back out we can discuss things rationally," she said quickly as she darted down the hall to disappear into her room. Her very own turtle shell.

--&--

He was standing in front of the fireplace, stooping down to look at the pictures her mother displayed there without actually touching them. She'd been uneasy since she saw him standing on her doorstep, knowing she would let him in. And as much as the tips of her ears burned in embarrassment, she remained still so as to let him continue to look at her life in retrograde. After he came to a rest at the end of the mantle, she cleared her throat, causing him to turn to look at her.

"You don't mind this, do you?" he turned the tables on her.

"Why would I?" she tried to act aloof, but merely pulled off a strained discomfort.

"You know, that's the one really nice thing about having parents that don't give a rat's ass. No parade of pictures spread out like a timeline where anyone that passes through the house can see."

She watched his effort to mask his pain, realizing how very bad at it he was. She took in his posture, his arm resting along the mantel in front of the pictures of her at various Halloweens in costumes fashioned by her very own mother, receiving awards at school, completely covered in flour while trying to bake cookies with Sookie in the Inn's kitchen, and being tickled silly by Lorelai on the front porch swing on their first day in this house. His shoulders were slouched, his head bent slightly, and his weight shifted on one leg making him lean further in toward the display of happy memories.

As if he could slide into one of the pictures and produce his very own contented childhood.

"I doubt that's true."

"Believe whatever you want. I can't expect you to understand," he tipped his head in the direction of the photos in funky frames.

"Okay, that's it. I'm buying you coffee," she grabbed his elbow and dragged him to the front door.

"Clearly you aren't schooled in the ways of dating, Miss Gilmore. Boys are supposed to pay, girls are supposed to pick at microscopic excuses for food and reapply their lipstick, using their knives as hand mirrors."

At the mention of dating, she stopped dead in the middle of her doorway. He tumbled forward into her from sheer inertia and grabbed her shoulder on one side and waist on the other to steady himself. Her own hands had landed on his chest in efforts to halt him from traveling any further into her body. She was acutely aware of the feel of his rapid heartbeat under her fingertips and her own heart being lodged in her throat, and the difficulty that was creating in her ability to breathe normally.

Not to mention the fact that he wasn't extracting himself from the situation with any speed.

"It's not a date. It's a necessity," she removed her hands slowly, letting them fall down his torso slightly as he mimicked her motions with his hands down the sides of her body.

It was a lie. And she knew he would be able to tell. She never knew what it was about her attempts that gave her away. Did her tone change? Did she forget which syllables to accent in her frenzy to pull it off? Were her eyes screaming at the recipient of said lie to take no stock in the words she spoke? She had no idea what it was; she only knew it was of no use at any rate. And omissions were of no help lately.

She'd just been so used to knowing she was supposed to resist him at all costs that even now she continued on.

"Whatever makes you feel better."

That was the thing about the lies she told herself. She did it for comfort, for reassurance in a world of unpredictability. Little white lies for her ears only. Things like "Karma exists," "Learning to cook isn't important in life," "Dad's going to stay for good this time," "Staying with Dean is the best thing to do," and "Tristan's not my type."

These things were keeping her on the path that she wanted to be on.

She just wasn't sure this was the path she wanted to tread anymore.


	7. Part Seven

Summary: Trory. Set Season One Post-TBP2 and Pre-LDAT. The Kiss at Madeline's Party never happened for the purposes of this fic.

Disclaimer: I own no rights to anything that is mentioned in my stories, including the main characters that I've borrowed for my plot manipulations.

Rating: T (will be bumped up soon)

Story Title: Untouched

Chapter Title: Part Seven

AN: Okay, so this took a little longer than I anticipated to get up, but it's hot off the presses, as it were. I'm now back to my juggling two stories and working (I start the new job tonight), so hopefully a more set schedule will get me updating faster again. . . but who knows. Thanks for the generous reviews you guys leave, they warm my heart, truly.

* * *

He was used to keeping up pretenses.

He knew that it was unacceptable to air personal issues in a public forum. That would connote weakness. While some in his position would avoid the general public for that very reason—too much being piled upon him to ignore or suppress—he had no real choice. It wasn't just expected of him to be at every party, every opening, every photo opportunity; it was demanded.

He was a paid actor.

Quite well paid, he supposed, not that he ever really thought of it. He would subsist on quite a lot less, if he could just stop for one moment and grasp at something he wanted. To be able to include something he truly cared about in this world of fake veneers and air kisses.

The trouble was the one thing, the one person, he wanted to be near utterly despised the falsity of it, just as he did. But no one was paying her. No one was making her do anything that she wasn't comfortable with. She was able to run free, run away, run toward anything she pleased.

Right now it was all he could do to keep her in front of him.

He could see the horror of it in her eyes at his very mention of this coming evening. The turning of heads, the dropping of mouths, the static of whispers that would envelop her. For these were the things that slid off of him. She tried to keep under the radar, keeping all attention off of her, the new girl, the one they loved to hate just from her unaffected visage. Putting herself in the center ring wasn't her ideal Saturday night.

He took in the facts. Despite her continued unwillingness to agree to accompany him this evening, still here she sat, on what looked to be a foot bridge (though what it gapped, he couldn't tell you), drinking coffee, and letting him attempt to talk her into it.

It wasn't him she was denying.

Suddenly the answer became clear, how best to accommodate both of their desires. His years of working around and creating his own rules within the confines of restriction may finally be paying off. She held onto the warmth of her coffee cup as she looked up in his silenced pondering, and she gave a soft smile.

"What?"

He returned the smile. "I've just had an idea."

Her eyes widened. "That might be the most frightening thing I've ever heard in my life."

"Do you or do you not want to hear said idea?"

She set her cup down on the wooden plank in front of her crossed legs. "Is it legal?"

"Completely."

"Does it have anything to do with me in a party dress?"

"Not if you don't want to, I suppose. Do you want to know what I'll be wearing?"

"You know what, Tristan--," she began, but he rolled his eyes and grabbed her coffee, pulling it away from her.

"I have a feeling you'll be listening now."

"You think I can't get more coffee?"

"I heard that man tell you he was cutting you off, I'm feeling pretty sure of myself."

She giggled. "You don't know him well enough. He threatens me like that daily. I've never gone without," she informed him. "Never so much as a twinge of a withdrawal headache."

"I hate this town," he set her coffee cup back in front of her in defeat.

"It just takes some getting used to. A different perspective is required."

He wondered how many of her statements were invitations. "I'm guessing some valium helps, too."

More giggling. "You forget, my drug of choice is caffeine. Helps me to outrun the nutcases in times of desperation."

"Perfect, all that adrenaline should help with my idea."

"Which is what, pray tell."

He set his coffee down as well and rubbed his hands together, the warmth remaining in his right hand transferring slowly but surely to his left. She was watching him carefully, like he was about to reveal the mystery of the universe to her.

"What if there was a way for you to be at the party, without anyone seeing you?"

Now she was eying him the same way she had the man in the diner who kept asking Luke for goat cheese on his patty melt because of the inhumane treatment of bovines.

"I'm not letting you stuff me into a bag or a server's cart," she shook her head.

"No Trojan Horses, I got it," he rolled his eyes.

"How is that even possible? I mean, for me to be there without being seen? I thought that was the whole point of you wanting me to go with you, to prove that you finally wore me down, right?"

Her eyes flickered with the same cerulean cynicism that by now he should be used to from her, but for a moment he'd let himself forget. That he'd given her nothing to make her move past his surface, or just not enough to make her want to dig deeper. He'd let himself think that she might help him to find somewhere not out of their own worlds, but just off to the side, to create something new that they could both find valuable. More than money, more than comfort; somewhere they were both comfortable.

Standing and leaving this place she'd chosen to lead him, where he'd come so willingly, he shook his head bitterly.

"I wanted you there for me. Not for anyone else," he said harshly as his shoes began sounding his exit of her.

"Tristan, wait!" she called, and he soon felt a soft hand on his shoulder blade, stopping him short. He looked down, turning at first his head only, then at the look of frenzy and (dare he even think it) desire he turned his whole body into hers.

Now that he held her so tightly against him, she seemed to lose her own voice. Her lips moved as if they might help her locate where it'd gone, like a fish that had jumped suddenly out of its bowl, but thus far they proved no assistance.

He ran one hand down the side of her face, catching his fingers in the stray hairs that had wound themselves around her face, sticking desperately to her lips. He pulled the deserters out of his way, sweeping them back to rest where they belonged, and he ached to confirm that the lip he'd freed of irritation tasted as bittersweet as the coffee he had just watched her consume.

"Aren't you even curious?" he breathed, not needing to increase his volume to drive home his delivery.

She could barely move now, but he saw the slight bob of her chin as she made her best effort to answer.

"Yes?"

"Yes," she whispered. "What do you want me to do?"

--&--

He walked in through the front door with all the confidence and nonchalance that he normally carried himself with. All around him were shouts and nods of salutation, the music ahead of him swallowing those that he'd already passed. One fist raised out of habit to knock into the waiting fist of a member of his smaller inner circle of friends. Another head nod of acknowledgement and he could make his way up the stairs to check on her.

He looked up the wide, winding staircase, his hand now gripping the mahogany railing, he could feel the anxiety rising for the moment that he could open the library door to find her sitting there, waiting on him.

"Tristan!"

Cursing under his breath, he turned to find the slinky blonde advancing on him, her usual shadow in tow. Madeline and Louise flanked him, and he was overwhelmed at the perfume that rolled off of their skin.

"Ladies," he smiled, kissing each of their cheeks.

"Where's Rory?" Louise demanded. "I thought if anyone could talk her into something, it would be you."

"Yeah, well you know how she is about stuff like this. She's not much of a party girl."

"But you promised," Louise extended her lower lip, which most men would have trouble not capturing between their own. She counted on that. The only thought that registered in his mind at the moment as her delicate hand ran up his arm was that hers weren't the lips he hoped to mingle among his own this evening.

"And you have no idea how hard it was for us to keep this knowledge from Paris," Madeline gave a giggle.

"Why would you do that?" he craned his neck to view the brunette.

"You know, she tends to wig out whenever your name is mentioned in conjunction with Rory's. And they just started getting along. Well, the bloodshed has been lessened, anyhow. It was our Good Samaritan duty for the week."

"I think for it to be a Good Samaritan duty, we would have to help someone less fortunate than us," Louise argued.

"Oh, right," Madeline's eyes clouded. "Well, we did it out of the goodness of our hearts anyhow," she beamed.

"I'm sorry you guys went through so much trouble," he sighed, "But Rory's not here."

"No worries, we'll leave you to find your next victim," Louise purred. "We'll be out in the hot tub if you need some help."

She gave him a wink as the two girls slid off of his arms and allowed themselves to be consumed by the swarming crowd. Feeling the need to check on Rory was overpowering, and he turned back to the staircase unencumbered.

He looked to his right and left quickly before trying the door handle. He knew this house, as well as many of his classmates' houses, like the back of his hand. Which doors didn't lock, which ones could be pried open with a solitary bobby pin, which ones were like Ft. Knox. He wanted to chance nothing tonight, and was glad to know of a room that was both easily accessible from outside and secure from the inside.

She'd locked it. He rapped three times quickly like they'd agreed upon and instantly it cracked open, allowing him entrance. She'd been waiting at the ready for him.

He shut and locked the door quickly behind him and found she'd only turned the small Tiffany style desk lamp on, he supposed so as not to alert passersby of any occupation. He saw the closed book next to the lamp. She'd been reading.

"Did you have any trouble getting in?" he asked quietly.

She shook her head. "Just like you said. The tree was actually easier to scale than it looked."

"Louise was disappointed to see you didn't come," he grinned, still trying to hide his incredulity from when she had originally told him it was no problem for her to climb a tree. She didn't look like the outdoorsy type.

She matched his pleasure. "Oh, really? That's sweet of her to be so concerned."

"You'll never guess what else they said to me," he continued, moving over to hop up onto the edge of the desk.

"I shudder to think."

"Madeline informed me that she and Louise purposefully didn't tell Paris you would be joining me this evening."

"Interesting. I didn't think that was possible, hiding facts from Paris," she seemed perplexed at his shared information.

"Hiding things from people is often much simpler than it seems," he said, reaching out for her hand.

She let him pull her closer, and he stopped leading her when she stood still between his knees that were now bent over the edge of the desk.

"You just need some discretion."

"Is that all?"

He heard her sharp intake of breath, and then he felt her squeeze his hand that still held hers. He nodded as he began to study her face in this pale light. The yellowness of the light bulb illuminated her face, the pale moonlight backlit her hair, causing an eerie contrast, making her seem almost otherworldly.

"What is it about keeping secrets, that makes everything more mysterious?" her words brought his attention to her mouth, watching as each syllable changed its shape. "Illicit, almost. Even the most harmless of things."

He brought his free hand up to her face, feeling the slope of her cheekbone. "A secret is just privied knowledge. Say, for example, with us. Meeting here. Privately. Not because someone else can't know, but because it's something we want to keep separate."

"It's not like either of us shouldn't be here like this," she breathed, nodding slowly in agreement with him.

"Exactly. What would each of us being doing otherwise? You'd be home, alone, feeling miserable because of something that you had no control over, and me, I'd be downstairs, alone, miserable, because you weren't here."

He didn't know if he was giving away too much or not. Honestly, if given lie detector test, he would swear on his life that these were things she was thinking too. He didn't have to hide from her. It would do no good, she could see through his façade anyhow. It was what had unnerved him about her to begin with. Being around someone that saw him was unnerving.

Being here with someone that cared was elating.

"Tristan," she seemed to be grasping for thought, for words. He loved having this effect on her. On her, of all people.

"Yeah," he slid his fingertips up underneath her hairline, weaving her hair around his skin.

"Do I have to climb back down that tree later?" she gave a soft chuckle, breaking the intensity of the moment. Through closed lips, he laughed, shaking his head.

"No, they'll all be too drunk in a couple of hours to notice if the house was on fire or not. We'll head out through the front door, most likely."

"Are you sure," came her fast questioning.

"Relax, I'm sure," he said, pulling his fingers down the length of her hair. He watched her eyes flutter shut in pleasure. Every last inch of her body. He knew he was right.

"What do you want?"

Her eyes widened, and she remained stock still in front of him. "Wha-what?"

He smiled. Her mind was miles ahead of his, and for that he was grateful.

"To drink, I'll go get something. Any requests?"

"Nothing alcoholic," she looked down at her shoes, in all honesty probably willing him not to watch the blush creep up over her cheeks. He squeezed her hand lightly before letting it go and sliding up off the desk.

"I'll be right back. Three quick knocks," he reminded her, and then left her to pick up her place in her book.

--&--

"DuGrey!"

He was almost back up the stairs, two cans of soda in his hands. He was really hoping to go by unnoticed, but that didn't often happen to him. In fact, it was probably best that from now on it didn't.

"Thirsty?"

"Planning to be so soon," he smirked.

"Nice," Josh slugged his shoulder in a friendly gesture. "Who you got up there?"

"Oh, you know. One of the many," he shrugged.

"Catch you later," he patted him on the back, his official send off. He was glad his friends weren't the questioning type. Or maybe he really had just slept with every other girl in the whole damn school. Juggling two cans in one hand, he let out three short raps on the door and awaited her allowance.

--&--

She lay on the couch along the darkest side of the room, light shining from neither the lamp nor the moon over her. Her head stopped just shy of where his began, as they'd laid with their knees over each armrest of the couch. Their sodas drank long ago, and even a food run on his part had been successfully completed. He was right, it was easy to hide among the ignorant.

"So, why do you come to these parties, if you're content to be holed up away from them all night?"

"And have a DuGrey not properly socialize and appear not worthy of the adulation that comes the next day? My, my, you'd think you'd learned nothing at school," he mocked.

"Surely your family expects more of you than that. What about your grandfather?"

"My grandfather bears down on my father. Just because he's not on my case doesn't mean he doesn't think the exact same way as the rest of them."

"So, you wouldn't tell them that you hid in a room, just talking to a girl and fetching her sodas all evening, would you?"

"Would you tell your mom that you came to one of these parties and hid in a room with the most notorious boy at your school?"

"Good point," she agreed.

"Does that mean that you wouldn't do it again?"

He waited for her answer. He knew their time was growing short, and he wanted to know what her lack of reference to this evening on Monday morning would mean. When they went back to slanted insults and talk of authors' contributions to American society in front of their classmates. Nothing out of the usual.

She sat up slowly, and leaned down over his face. Her long hair fell over his nose, tickling him softly. She pulled the strands back behind her ear and peered into his eyes in the dark.

"As long as I don't have to climb any more trees," her eyes glowed with a look of conspiratorial rapture.

"I'll see what I can do. How do you feel about ladders?"

She shuddered. "Don't you know of any first floor accommodations anywhere?"

He smirked. "Laundry rooms can be fun."

"I should be getting home soon," she gave her best attempt at a suppression of his comment. Utter avoidance. Something they could work on together. He sat up, not wanting her to start closing herself off to him, not yet.

"Do you have a curfew?"

"Not really. The general rule is to beat Mom home, but she's been," she paused, looking down at her lap. She was still holding things back from him. He slid his hand over hers, and rubbed his thumb across, scraping over her knuckles slowly.

"She's been what?"

"Out. All hours of the night. She's dating a guy in Hartford."

He nodded, taking what she told him without further questioning. She'd been so kind as to accompany him this evening, he certainly wasn't going to push his luck now.

"Rory?"

She looked up at him again, not wanting his questions. Still afraid he'd push her too far.

"I'm glad you came tonight."

"Me too," she nodded softly.

He stood up, offering his hand once again to her. She took it in the spirit it was intended, to help her off of the plush couch, and she arched her back as a means to wake her body up a bit.

"You ready to see the future of America, completely trashed to the point of not being able to sit up on their own volition?" he grinned.

"You're too good to me, really, I mean, the places you take me," she teased.

Still having a hold of her hand, he couldn't resist the opportunity. He pulled her close, too close perhaps, until her chin came to rest at his shoulder. She looked up at him as if to make him aware at how shockingly close he'd brought her. She swallowed her comments as he slid a hand around her waist to tell her that personal space be damned. Secrets were made for close quarters.

"I'll take you anywhere you want to go," he spoke into her ear. "All you ever have to do is ask."

Normally when he spouted off such a comment to her, she would shoot daggers at him with just a glance. She'd turn his words back on him like a double-edged sword. It's funny the way that silence and darkness can change the perspective of things as simple as mere words.

Her hand found the solidity of his shoulder to brace herself against, instead of tossing a quippy comeback at him. She nodded into him, her cheek brushing against his chest. He leaned his head down to the point that his lips met her forehead. He held her like this, against him, burying himself in her as best he could, for as long as it took to make them both painstakingly aware of the fact that this was just another facet of their relationship now. It was in addition to all that they dealt with in their lives.

He'd finally found a context in which his behavior could break through the pretenses.


	8. Part Eight

Summary: Trory. Set Season One Post-TBP2 and Pre-LDAT. The Kiss at Madeline's Party never happened for the purposes of this fic.

Disclaimer: I own no rights to anything that is mentioned in my stories, including the main characters that I've borrowed for my plot manipulations.

Rating: T (will be bumped up soon)

Story Title: Untouched

Chapter Title: Part Eight

AN: You guys continue to be ridiculously wonderful to me in the review department. I love you all for being so supportive. And Katherine, for the novella she left for the last chapter, well, I don't expect to be so blessed again ever like that in my life, but it sure did make me smile. I'm just glad you guys enjoy.

* * *

She wasn't sure what she expected, really.

Some sort of emblazoned letter to appear on the front of her uniform. A 'T', perhaps, instead of an 'A'. The ground to swallow her whole instead of allowing her to pass through the ever imposing front gates of the institution. Him to suddenly be polite to her in the halls.

When she realized that none of these things were likely to happen at her locker before first period on Monday morning, and she could feel the anger bubbling up as well as the desire to chastise both him and herself for believing for a moment that anything would ever be different. It was a toss-up whom she was more livid with. And it was all emanating from the unusually cruel way he was berating her in front of their peers, given the knowledge he'd been set with.

"What's the matter, couldn't you get your boyfriend to take you to the party? Or was he just too ashamed to bring the cart and buggy into the big city?" He held onto the ability to make the word boyfriend sound lethal despite its imaginary status.

"What the hell is your problem?" her unabashed and utter confusion truly sold her harassment. Her desire for him to just disappear and leave her be was priceless in its effectiveness.

"You're the one that said you wanted to go. I just don't get this guy at all. I shouldn't be surprised he wouldn't let you come to the party, I mean, this guy is dumb enough to leave his girlfriend to have to take the bus home from school." She would have smiled at his inability to spit out the word girlfriend with the same distaste, if she weren't trying to figure out what had caused his apparent head injury.

"I fail to see how any of this is your business, or relevant to your life at all. You have no idea what you're talking about," she snatched her books out of her locker without looking and shoved them into her backpack.

What she wasn't prepared for was the gaze he gave her before he walked away. It was one she hoped no one else had noticed, unlike the screaming match they'd just had. Everyone had turned to pay heed to the scathing tones and hurtful words. This look in his eyes was the only proof that their deal, this arrangement of sorts—unspoken as it was—still held.

It was the only thing holding her up right now.

She made her way to class, her only hopes that he would skip out on Medieval History, where his seat was located directly behind hers. Her problem with him now more than ever became about sheer proximity and the volatility that came with it. In all their other shared classes, she was graced with distance, but not in History. Granted with close enough contact, he normally proceeded to kick her chair, lightly, constantly, irritatingly, until she turned to glare at him. This reward she doled out earned her about a minute and a half of reprieve before the game started all over again. Silent torture.

Her day until the point of her walking into that class had gone smoothly enough since his confrontation, yet somehow the lack of bumps were more unsettling. Louise had come up to her after first period, with Madeline and Paris in tow: the three amigas, as it were. Louise and Madeline had fawned over her, implying that she'd had perhaps better offers to be alone in the back of her boyfriend's pick-up truck last Saturday night under the stars, the only romantic notion to living in the sticks. Paris had even hung back to give her a smile and tell her she didn't do such a bad job at moderating the mock debate they'd had in Econ earlier in the day. She'd done nothing, save not be seen with Tristan, to deserve such high praise from these girls. And that's what they'd heaped on her. Their very own form of praise.

She'd never been more confused by the time she hit History, as she'd had plenty of time to think about all these separate occurrences and how they'd come together. She hadn't made it a point to tell anyone in this place that her boyfriend had broken up with her, save for Tristan. There was no one else she deemed a friend, an ally. No one who needed to know. She didn't want their pity, but in all reality, she was avoiding giving them more fodder to add to the mounting good, innocent, schoolgirl image they insisted on labeling her with.

She didn't even know why that bothered her so much.

As soon as she slid into her seat, the teacher called for them to pass their assignments up to the front of the class, and she put just her hand back over her shoulder to receive the stack Tristan would deposit in there. She was pissed off for his earlier act, look or no, and for the attention it'd drawn to her. When she began to make a neat, straight pile out of the papers, shaking them down against her desktop, a small note fell from the middle of the stack. She saw her name written over the fold and dropped it into her lap before handing the rest of the papers, hers now included, up the row.

She darted her eyes around to make sure no one was watching her pass notes in class. She felt his foot rest on the back of her desk, but it was a single motion, not his usual tapping. He knew he had her attention, and the thought occurred to her that it was his only way of touching her right now.

She unfolded it and gave a soft gasp at the words he'd sent along to her.

"I had to do it."

Taking her pen without thought, she wrote her response directly underneath.

"I need to talk to you."

She folded the paper into a smaller square, fitting it in the palm of her hand and glanced up again at the teacher, who was busy writing a timeline across the chalkboard. She made to scratch her back with the paper palmed in her hand, letting it come to rest now on his desktop.

And she waited. The teacher had turned around, asking questions and calling on those who looked the most distracted or least prepared. For this she was ready. What she wasn't ready for was his pencil hitting the floor and the slight brushing of his hand against her skirt on his way back up to retrieve it from beside her saddle shoe.

Leaving behind the note and the sensation of warmth and scratchy wool against her leg.

The teacher once again turned to erase his prior artwork and begin anew, satisfied with his calling out of the ignorant and bored, and she quickly unfolded the note again in her lap, using her desktop to obscure it from sight of any eyes but her own.

"Just go about your normal routine, and you'll get your wish."

She had to will herself not to turn around in her seat to fix him with a questioning and frustrated glare. She knew he could see the tips of her ears burning crimson because of her decision to pull her hair up into a ponytail this morning. She crumbled the note in her palm as the teacher turned his attention back out to his class full of otherwise occupied students, doing her best to do just what the note said.

But she was learning quickly how difficult it was to put Tristan DuGrey out of her mind.

It was bad enough that every time she closed her eyes now she could practically transport herself back into the library in Louise's house, with his chest firm against her and his lips pressing lightly into her hairline. His hands rubbing lightly over her back. His hand as he rested it over hers all the way to Stars Hollow.

Keeping her eyes open wasn't helping her much either.

At the bell signaling their escape, she stood up and turned to face him, seeing only his back as he walked away as if she didn't matter at all.

'Just go about your normal routine,' she thought to herself as she slowly gathered her belongings to give it another shot.

--&--

She recrossed her legs yet another time, trying to get comfortable on the hard plastic of the bus bench. She'd tried reading, but staring at the same three words left her feeling drained, as her mind was reeling too fast to comprehend their meaning enough to move on. With every moment that passed, Tristan's window on being able to slide into her normal routine was closing a bit more. She knew her mother was going to be home early tonight, and he couldn't just drop by tonight. Not with her mother and the possibility of their instructor hanging around.

Just yet another thing she had to tell him. Another restriction. Another reason she was more on edge as time slipped away from them.

As anxious as she was to see the familiar stream-lined frame of his car come into her view, she remained anchored to her seat when it finally did. She would normally not jump up and run like a groupie to his car.

She wasn't his groupie. Or his girlfriend. She was . . . not sure what was going to happen next. That was the only constant in her life right now. Unpredictability.

"You getting in?"

Relief flooded her body at the knowledge that within seconds she would slide into place next to him, destination unknown. She didn't care. She hated for him to take her home—the ride was too familiar and would pass too quickly.

"And why would I want to do that?"

"Because my car smells nicer than the bus. Less risk of catching some communicable disease, as well."

"I don't think I'd make that claim if I were you," she shot back, and she swore he smiled at her dig, proud of her effort.

"At least you'd have a better time contracting it in here," he shot back.

"You're disgusting."

"Do I need to remind you that your little outburst last Friday night left us behind schedule, with more work to catch up on?"

"And my getting in your car will magically catch us up on said work?"

"No, but we can figure out another night we can meet. I mean, I know how hard it is for you to fit me into your very busy schedule."

She closed her book and rested one hand on top of the cover, feeling the cloth of the hardback cover. She knew she didn't have to protest much longer, but she had to admit, the feeling that he evoked in her when their debates got heated . . . she was beginning to understand the appeal of picking a fight so that you could make up later. Like she held some sort of mystical power to arouse.

"Fine," she gave a half-hearted groan, and shoved her book into her bag. It'd been a useless effort on her part anyhow, she reminded herself. After all, she'd been waiting all day to see what would happen upon their next meeting.

"Now, that's better," he smirked as she secured herself into the seatbelt. "Home?"

"Actually, I was kind of hoping to go somewhere else first," she looked down as her hands absently wrung at each other, then up again to gauge his reaction.

"Like where?"

"Are your parents still gone?"

She hadn't thought it was possible, to shock him. But as his mouth gaped open, she could almost see all the words that he wanted to say escape him.

"I just, it's been a weird day. And I don't want to be interrupted."

"Yeah, sure. Fine," he nodded, and then fell into silence as he obliged her request. She followed his lead, just watching as he shifted the car in and out of gears, guiding them through the city streets with ease.

--&--

He emerged out of his bathroom, his tie undone and his jacket off. She looked up from her place on his couch, instantly dropping the hem of her shirt she'd untucked from her skirt.

"I, uh, forgot to grab clothes," he pointed to his dresser.

She simply nodded and smiled, trying not to stare openly at his disheveled state. She hated being in her uniform with him able to change back into regular street clothes. She felt like she was playing dress up when she wore the uniform in front of other people, outside of school. And if there was one costume she'd not normally dress up in, it was a Catholic school girl outfit. It brought to mind too many kinky inferences for her taste. She decided to do what she could to get more comfortable, and quickly shed her own tie and jacket as she waited on him to get dressed.

"Much better," he threw his uniform into a hamper in the corner of the room, and sat on his bed, facing her. "So, you wanted to talk?"

"Well, yeah," she said as if he should already know what she was about to say.

He hung his head for a moment and let out a long sigh. "You can't be upset."

"Well, I can be anything I want. It's called a woman's prerogative."

He looked up at her with a raised eyebrow. She rolled her eyes and began again. "I just mean that I didn't expect you to be screaming at me in the hall about my boyfriend, which by the way, I don't have," she reminded.

"I know that. But no one else does, and I'm not technically supposed to know either."

"I know, but," she protested, silenced at the raise of his hand. She sat up straighter, as if she'd need proper circulation and posture in order to hear him better.

"But nothing. If we're going to keep this, well, like it is," he narrowed his eyes knowingly, "we can't just change facts. It's a fact that we argue. It's a fact that I don't know anything personal about your life other than what I've seen at school related functions. It's a fact that you wouldn't be caught dead at a party with me."

She let out a long sigh. These were facts; at least that's what a poll of the student body of Chilton Preparatory would show.

"I guess it was just weird, watching you pretend to fight with me," she wiggled in her seat on the couch, trying to dispel the nervous energy that was shooting up her legs and into her abdomen.

"Why? It's not a new phenomenon," he raised both hands, upturned at elbow height.

"Well, I know we argue quite regularly, I just meant that, you know, after Saturday, and trying to not let on, that now, when you say those things, you were just trying to cover," she rambled, pulling at the cuff of her shirtsleeve.

He stood up and moved to sit next to her on the couch in his jeans and plain T-shirt. He looked so comfortable, so classically male. She watched him, waiting for his response, unable to speak as he moved closer. More and more this was her reaction to his proximity. Baited breath, waiting for something that felt inevitable. He sat near, with the side of his leg pressing into hers, and took the hand that was tugging so furiously at her shirtsleeve, resting it in her lap, patting the back of it reassuringly. Telling her not to be nervous.

"I was always pretending," he now slid his open hand underneath the hand he'd repositioned, pressing his palm up into hers.

"Tristan," she breathed in as she spoke, feeling like he'd knocked the wind out of her lungs. He pulled his hand away from hers slowly, the pads of his fingers dragging over her sensitive palm.

"Don't you know why I kept at you all that time? To see that spark flare up in your eyes, your mouth slightly pout in an offended, yet ready stance. Color rushes to your cheeks, and I swear your eyes just," he continued, staring at each part as he spoke of it.

"Don't," she whispered.

"Don't what?"

"Talk about me like that," she withdrew her hand, and clasped it against her own in her lap once more.

"Don't compliment you?" he asked, confused beyond belief. She was sure flattery was a tact that normally worked for him. She didn't want to fall for what worked with the others. She wanted to be something altogether different. Like a foreign country or an unearthed culture he would have to map out anew.

"I don't want to hear things like that, false things, things you say but don't mean just to get me to do things… You don't need to, and I just can't… ."

"They aren't false. You're beautiful, everything about you," he shook his head, reaching out with a single finger to trace her lips, with an aching slowness and the barest of pressures.

It wasn't a kiss; it was better. A preamble to the real thing, the pinnacle point—the answer to the question of what it was they were really doing here. Surely they weren't meeting in secret, climbing trees, and fake fighting so that they could be friends. Friends would be perfectly acceptable in both of their worlds. It fit just fine. Maybe not the best of friends; they were still straggling between two very distinct line in the sand for that, but there was no shame in falling into a mutual acceptance of the other, if nothing more, just pure admiration of the other's techniques.

By then end, she was fully prepared for his lips to descend upon hers, as she parted them under the slight pressure of his forefinger. She couldn't open her eyes, too afraid to run if she knew he was approaching. She waited a moment, perhaps one too long, for him to make his move.

"Rory," he whispered, causing her to open her eyes at last. He'd retracted his hands, keeping them at bay on his knees.

"Yeah?" she managed, not sure how well her disappointment was showing through. She attempted to keep her lips in line, not even a shadow of a pout apparent. She'd been so sure. . . .

"We should make a decision. I have to be somewhere soon," he began.

"Oh, right. About the project," she nodded tersely.

"Not that I wouldn't want you to stay, but really, I have to," he now rambled, and she smiled, wondering if she was rubbing off on him. After all, he seemed to transfer the desire to have their lips joined over to her. She just needed to collect her wits.

"No, I need to get home anyway. Uh, I'll figure it out and drop a note in your locker," she nodded, standing up and collecting her shed clothing. Her book bag was still in his car, and she suddenly wished she had the weight of it on her back to make her feel anchored.

"Okay," he hesitated before standing next to her. "Are you okay?"

"I'm good, really. I just, I thought that maybe," she bit her lip, seemingly unable not to drag it into the conversation.

"That I was going to kiss you?" he gave a faint smirk, she was sure he was holding back to keep the possibility of the act in the future.

She nodded, crossing her arms self-consciously over her chest, letting her jacket fall folded over her arm, her tie dangling from her fingertips. She looked back at him to see him smile and stand, stepping just shy of her.

"All in good time," he promised, and she couldn't help but share his smile. She gave a half nod, her head falling really, more than moving on her own volition, bowing so that he wouldn't see the relief and the anticipation that had a hold on her. She let him usher her back to his car, and take her home, all the while thinking about expectations.

He was out to blow all her expectations out of the water.


	9. Part Nine

Summary: Trory. Set Season One Post-TBP2 and Pre-LDAT. The Kiss at Madeline's Party never happened for the purposes of this fic.

Disclaimer: I own no rights to anything that is mentioned in my stories, including the main characters that I've borrowed for my plot manipulations.

Rating: T (will be bumped up soon)

Story Title: Untouched

Chapter Title: Part Nine

He never did like surprises much.

The kind of surprises he was used to receiving weren't the happy-go-lucky, 'we're getting you a puppy' kind of surprises. They tended to be more akin to bombs dropped on his personal and social life. Things more of the nature of his parents announcing that they're shipping him off to some institutional camp (meant for learning, but usually involving some sort of torture inflicted on said 'campers') for the summer or the business deal that his father was working on with one of his good friends' father fell through and he was no longer to socialize with any of their family or his parents had changed their travel plans and he'd be alone for the Christmas holidays.

He was used to nothing good coming without a price. There was always a second shoe, hovering just over the ground, ready to drop should he be caught off guard growing complacent. His only saving grace thus far came with the knowledge that everything and everyone has a price, and his parents had enough money to cushion the blows that came with life's little surprises.

Perhaps this is why he kept his life so in order; doing everything familiar, not stepping out of the smallish circle of people that he actually entrusted. Weekly meetings with his grandfather, parties at houses of people he'd known since birth. Not that he trusted all these people, but they were no different than anyone else. He knew how to command their respect and shut them up when need be. Nothing out of keeping ever came from that area of his life, save for the occasional pissed off boyfriend from one of the girls that hopped off the turnstile and into his bed for an evening. Or a pissed off girl that had dreamed of being the one to change him.

If they only knew.

He let out a breath of smoky confidence, feeling the burning of the cigarette down near the filter, the heat almost too hot near his fingers. He leaned against the door to his car, looking at his grandfather's house, lost in thought.

He wondered if she knew that she was changing him.

Not outwardly. On the exterior, he was still the same boy that teased and tormented her in the hallway, the library, anywhere that the multitudes could witness. On the inside, however, that's where he was wondering how much longer he could go without pulling her into the janitorial closet and chancing their getting caught together, teeth tearing and tongues soothing, as their next meeting time loomed long before him and remained somewhat unknown.

He'd left it up to her. A surprise.

Her hesitation, if you could call it that, in letting him know the details for their next rendezvous was becoming that second shoe. He'd held off in taking this to a physical place, save for mostly innocent grazes with both hands and eyes, making sure she felt each and every inch of herself being consumed. Savored by him. He knew she felt it too; otherwise she wouldn't have asked if he planned on kissing her. It was a move he was taken aback by; he'd known by the fluttering of her eyelids and the way her breath turned shallow that she was more than willing to let him make the next move right then and there on the couch in his bedroom.

Perhaps if he had, throwing all caution to the wind, she wouldn't have been able to put off the decision, driven by the heat he knew that was built up between them, that would be evidenced by the first meeting of their lips. He knew it was coming. He wondered if she did. If she was aware of the potential energy that surged between them, in desperate need to be put into motion.

He cursed the laws of inertia.

"You coming in or not?" came the deep voice from the main entryway.

"Yeah," he nodded, throwing the filter down on the ground and snuffing it out with the sole of his shoe.

"Those things will kill you, you know," his grandfather patted his back in welcome.

"So will living your life in fear of everything that could potentially kill you."

"Ah, the living dead."

"Exactly. How's tricks?"

"Go pour yourself a drink, I have to make a call," Janlan instructed, taking his grandson's coat and handing it to the maid on his way through the sprawling mansion.

"Yes, sir," he said, moving to pour himself a soda. He knew not to push his limits too far with the older man. Not to mention his thoughts were muddled enough without the added mess that alcohol would introduce. He sat down and pulled out his cell phone, checking through the missed call register. Scrolling down through the familiar but blaringly lacking list, he frowned; mainly from knowing that his was not the next step to be made.

"Expecting a call?"

"No," he shrugged, taking another sip of his cold drink.

"Then what's with the face?"

"It's just my face. If you don't like it, take it up with Mother and Father," he smirked.

"God, looking at that smirk, it is like looking at your father."

Tristan's face was instantly wiped free of said show of sarcasm. That was one comparison he wasn't eager to have made. "So, what's on the agenda for tonight, Gramps?"

"No agenda. Just a leisurely dinner. Why, you have a hot date later? Eager to take leave of my company?"

"No, I might have had this study session, but it looks like it won't happen tonight."

"I'm sorry; did you just say study session? As in books and learning?"

"It's been known to happen," Tristan rolled his eyes, downing the last of the liquid from the glass. "Refill?" he stood and reached out for his grandfather's equally empty bar glass.

"Are your grades in trouble?" he asked as Tristan fixed his rum and Coke, with just a splash of Coke as per usual, before pouring more soda into his own glass.

"No. I have an overachiever for a project partner."

"And who would that be?"

"You don't know her," he handed off the glass and resumed his seat across from his grandfather in the sitting room.

"Her?" Janlan's eyebrows rose in interest.

Tristan sighed, knowing that it would have been better to keep his big mouth shut. It was hard for him to do, as he knew he was in need of advice—whether he wanted it or not—and it was Janlan he always turned to in times of need.

"She's a Gilmore."

"Gilmore? You don't mean Richard Gilmore's granddaughter? The one that was born illegitimately?"

"Well, at least you didn't say 'out of wedlock,'" Tristan shook his head and let out a deep sigh. "Her name is Rory, and yes, I believe Richard is her grandfather."

"Richard mentioned you'd gone to her last birthday party," Janlan nodded.

"Well, Father said," he raised his glass. "You know what that means."

"So, you've no interest past being this girl's study partner?"

Tristan looked up, unsure exactly what to say. There were no such things as secrets among the society set. As soon as he mentioned even a fondness for Rory to his grandfather, the next Saturday at the Club that Janlan ran into Richard it would be brought up in passing, Emily would be on the phone to his mother—as well as fifteen other old biddies that had nothing else better to talk about—and it would all end up getting all over school and thoroughly permeate into both of their everyday lives.

And then it would be over before it truly began.

"Of course not," he said simply, hoping against hopes that his grandfather would just let it drop, believing him or not, and be unable to say anything one way or the other to anyone else.

"Well then, have you given any more thought into interning for the company this summer?" his grandfather branched out into another topic, just as taxing on his system, but only able to affect his life. And for that, he let him give him the whole spiel without argument this evening.

--&--

By Thursday afternoon, with receiving only a quick glimpse of her as she scurried into class right before the bell and out again as if a part of some sort of between-class relay race, he'd given up hope of their getting to meet for anything other than a study session this weekend. He had hoped that she was thinking of ways to meet him non-stop, as he'd been doing, but he wasn't going to admit to it if she couldn't even bother herself to so much as leave the note she'd promised in his locker.

He was still capable of having a good time without her.

He popped open his locker to deposit his books and collect his car keys in order to go home and sort through his other offers for the coming weekend; ones he'd neglected in anticipation of hearing from her until now. He tossed everything in without much care, as per usual, but it was a slip of orange paper that caught his attention before he could shut the door. He bent down to retrieve it, not bothering to look around first. There was nothing written on the outside folds, but he knew it had to be from her. Just at holding this slip of paper in his hands, the anticipation of what she might have written caused his heart to race and his mouth to desiccate. Using just two fingers to pry the two halves apart just enough to scan the contents, he couldn't help the smile that formed across his features.

_8 p.m. Friday night; be at the following address and look for further instructions in the mailbox. I'll be waiting._

_Rory_

He scanned over the address, vaguely recognizing it before shoving the paper into his pockets with his keys. She would be waiting. And so would he.

--&--

Though at this time of the year the sun was allowed to hang above the horizon for increasingly longer stretches by just moments each day, reaching further into when they'd grown accustomed to experiencing dusk, Tristan was covered by enough darkness at eight in the evening not to warrant a call to the police for reaching into the mailbox that Rory had led him to that Friday evening. He saw no name on the side of the box, though that was fairly common among the wealthy. No need to give the freaks and the desperate an easier time in finding their target.

He just hoped he was right on his target.

He'd known the physical effects of withdrawal before. He'd given up smoking once or twice when he felt the need for a challenge. Times of stress, all induced by his family or the demands that came along with his last name, had driven him back to it. He knew the increased heartbeat and slight shake of his hands as just more shows of weakness—other hurdles to overcome quickly.

She'd been avoiding him, for what reason he wasn't sure: he was sure that she could take her pick. He hadn't been able to get a close look at her in days, save for time in class that he had to be careful not to be caught daydreaming by the teacher. Often when looking on her, he let his thoughts drift into a more secluded environment, but lately his gazing couldn't even be called daydreaming. It was more of a fix. To see how her hair was fixed; the way her lips shined, showing him if she'd had time to stop by her locker to reapply the lip gloss that passed as the only make-up she normally wore; if she was absently clicking her pen in and out to show that her thoughts too were not remaining on their instructor's voice. He longed to make her tell him what her thoughts drifted to, if ever they landed on him, but it was much too risky for her to crane around to stare at him in such a manner during class so he could ascertain this knowledge on his own. And it was far too risky to pull her aside for a confidential conversation in the hallways. But now, his waiting was almost complete, as unending as it'd seemed.

He'd even stopped by her bus bench today, hoping to coax more information out of her on the ride to her house, but she hadn't been there. He was left with five hours of nothing, save for hoping that tonight would be worth the wait.

True to her prior instruction, he found another orange slip of paper in the mailbox. This one had his name on it, for what reason he wasn't sure, other than the higher chance of someone else finding it first. He unfolded the paper and read the directions that took him over to the side of the house, and as many times as he read it, it instructed him to climb up the trellis and onto a second story balcony.

Now his interest was peaked. She was having him play Romeo to her Juliet, at the house he recognized as her grandparents. There was just as much chance of their getting caught as that ill-fated pair. His lips curled up at line that popped into his head from the play, wondering if she wouldst leave him so unsatisfied this evening. It was impossible, he decided, as his satisfaction would come in being able to touch her, breathe her in, and draw her near. All the things that he'd been denied so harshly all week.

He climbed the sturdy trellis with ease, swinging his leg up over the railing and coming to rest on the other side as softly as possible. No need to heighten suspicion with the loud thuds that normally preceded burglars. He looked around, noting the drawn curtains over the window in front of him and the high trees that separated the property from the one adjacent to it. They were in perfect seclusion, if only she would join him.

The curtain shifted to the side, and he caught a sliver of her face as a smile broke over her mouth quickly before she let the curtain fall back into place. From the underneath side now she came, opening the window and emerging through it with ease.

"Juliet, I presume?"

She looked at him with confusion, but caught on quickly as a soft giggle escaped her lips.

"I hadn't thought about that. I was just trying to offer payback for you making me climb that tree last week."

He nodded, his hands now shoved into his pockets. "I see. So, I take it from my out of the ordinary entrance, that we won't be studying tonight?" he let his voice both drop and lower, the husky whisper seeming to draw her in closer to him.

She shook her head. "If that's okay," she looked up into his eyes, making him wish for something to lean against, something to hold him up. "I just wanted to see you."

"Here I am," he brought his hands out of his pockets, showing her that he was in fact all there. Completely present and at the ready. She hopped up on the side of the balcony railing, her feet now dangling down in front of her. He leaned next to her, in the corner, and took another look at her. She was always beautiful, but it seemed to be an exponential effect with the ability to touch her. He was drawn in more and more with each meeting, each sighting. He reached out and caressed the underneath side of her bare calf, not even pantyhose to cover her legs, leaving them exposed until the short skirt of the dress she wore began above her knees. Her head fell forward and to the side, her chin pressing into her shoulder nearest him.

"Where are we, exactly?" he kept up the conversation, willing her to feel comfortable, and not completely at ease himself with his lack of total knowledge. He couldn't be at the ready with a believable fabrication should something go awry if he wasn't equipped with the whole story first.

"My grandparents' house, this is the balcony off of my mother's room from when she was little."

"It's nice. Secluded."

"Well, you know what they say, like mother, like daughter," she said rather wistfully.

He narrowed his eyes at her comment and let his fingers scrape along the fold of her knee, still mapping her body out with a sense other than sight. He hoped to get the pleasure of using all of his senses to create a master copy of her every nook and cranny: never being able to exhaust his explorative efforts, he was sure.

"So, you both like it up here?"

"See that place, right over there?" one slim finger pointed over to the other side of the balcony, the corner opposite from where they were situated.

"Yeah."

"That is the place of my initial conception," she barely spoke above a whisper, but his full attention was commanded. "My parents did anything to get away from their parents, and evidently this was the one place no one ever looked for them. Hence, their ability to make me, right in this very spot."

He had no words for her, and he wasn't really sure what she was telling him all of this for. He let his hand travel back down the front of her leg; tracing the shinbone that ran down the middle, unwilling to push her limits as she confided in him.

"She's really afraid the same thing will happen to me, she's been guarding me against it since before I can remember. That's why she liked Dean so much, he never," she furrowed her eyebrows for a moment, as if to find the right way to describe his lack of attention to her needs. "I don't even think he thought of me that way, really. I mean, he loved me, but like you love a piece of art. You want it to remain as it is, perfect, untouched."

He nodded, letting his hand trail up a bit higher on this pass around, cresting over the bend of her knee.

She looked up at him suddenly, pulled from her prior thoughts, and reached one hand up to touch his jaw line. He stilled the movement of his hand, coming to rest securely underneath her lower thigh, tucked between soft skin and hard concrete. Both were cool to the touch, and he wondered if she were freezing out in the still chilly spring night air, wearing only a light dress. In all honesty, he couldn't imagine she was if the same adrenaline was being released over her body as was in his; he knew the moment of no return for the pair of them—as his own had long since past—was rapidly approaching.

Her fingers felt out the slight stubble that had grown out over the course of the day, as if it was reaching up from under his skin to meet her grazing fingers. She was gentle, and he could tell she wasn't sure how much pressure to apply to his skin. He was the furthest thing from fragile she might ever encounter, and yet here she was being gentle with him. He came to rest in front of her legs, which were parted just enough for him to slide between easily. Her exploration had landed her hand on his neck, covering his racing pulse. She gave a soft smile at the feel of his pulse jumping under her palm.

"Kiss me," she whispered.

And so he could wait no longer. Keeping his one hand stable under her leg, he allowed the other to wrap around her waist, anchoring him around her. His own eyes fell closed as he finally allowed his lips to find hers. The barest of pressure at first, matching her own, feeling his breath catch for the first time in his life during a kiss. He was waiting for permission to take control of the kiss, something undeniable to give him free reign over her senses. It came in the form of her parted mouth and seeking tongue as it ran across his bottom lip. Suddenly there wasn't enough pressure in the whole of the world to allow him to meld hard enough into her. He probed; full of curiosity, longing, and pure need. Knowing each kiss would be different, a species in and of itself, he wanted her to know they were all worth exploring. He never wanted to breathe again if it meant being locked in such a sweet torture. Her tongue was just as hungry as it matched his, tasting and sampling him with the rush of the first time.

It wasn't until he grew slightly dizzy, like a child trying to blow up a balloon too fast, that he drew far back far enough to take a breath. His eyes opened to see the raw vision before him: her lips stained from the blood that had rushed there because of his brashness, not make-up, and her eyes that spoke only of the desire for more.

He came back to her immediately, to fill her need. And drive his own.

He foresaw no surprise she could have in store for him to be anything other than worth the anticipation that this moment had exploded with.


	10. Part Ten

Summary: Trory. Set Season One Post-TBP2 and Pre-LDAT. The Kiss at Madeline's Party never happened for the purposes of this fic.

Disclaimer: I own no rights to anything that is mentioned in my stories, including the main characters that I've borrowed for my plot manipulations.

Rating: M

Story Title: Untouched

Chapter Title: Part Ten

She had always believed that the mind could overcome the body.

If you put your mind to something, they say, then you can accomplish anything. This didn't just apply to her studies and career aspirations—it was the key to keeping her emotions in check most of the time. Sure, sometimes she erupted at her mother out of frustration of not understanding why her parents couldn't be together, and she'd definitely lost it when she was denied entrance to her first exam for being ten minutes late at Chilton. She could chalk those up to foolish childhood ideals and sleep deprivation, respectively. But for the most part, she only let through what she wished to portray herself as: calm, cool, and collected.

None of which could she count among the feelings she was currently experiencing.

He was standing there, so intimately near that she could feel him even before his hand started its gentle, yet intentional, fondling of her leg. Her leg, that's all she could feel at the current moment. She'd never considered her knee or calf to be particularly erogenous zones—in fact she had trouble believing in the past that there were in fact seven main erogenous zones located on the body. She figured that perhaps she was just malformed because, try as she might, all she'd ever seemed to be able to count was a total of three—maybe four, but she hadn't had enough exposure to the passing graze that Dean had accidentally performed before returning his hands back to her waist like a good boy does.

She knew she was babbling; confessing, stalling, trying to focus. The last word she spoke seemed to hang in the air, hovering, threatening to cover them with its remaining presence. _Untouched_. It occurred to her that despite her constant desire to touch him, she'd done nothing to convey that to him. Nothing to let him know how much she wanted to touch him, or how much she loved it when he even just accidentally grazed against her. Though the looks he exchanged with her on those instances left her feeling that nothing he did was accidental.

His hand rounded over the top of her knee, his fingers sliding up under the edge of the hem of her skirt. Her mouth was far from dry, as she often got with fear; instead she was overwhelmed with the need to swallow down the anticipation, she wasn't afraid of him. She wanted to be right here, right like this with him.

All she had to do was show him that.

One hand reached out to smooth her fingertips over the angular edge of his jaw. His eyes remained trained on hers, despite the surprise in them. She might have thought that no one had ever touched him like that, with tenderness, but she found that a hard pill to swallow. Surely some girl before her had wanted to crack his outer exterior. Then it hit her.

Maybe she was the first one he'd allowed to do so.

He leaned into her touch, almost forcing her to increase her pressure against the scratchy stubble that was just making its way through his skin. She slid her hand down, past the rough expanse of his jaw down the thin skin over his neck, stopping when she felt his heartbeat throbbing under her hand at his pulse point. It was expediting, mimicking the fluttering she felt in her own chest.

Surely he wouldn't deny her now. If she'd had any doubts as to his wanting this as much as she did in the past, there was no hesitation now.

"Kiss me," she implored softly, willing the tempo of the blood pounding through his veins to continue to skyrocket along with hers.

He pulled himself into her, nestling between her legs. The hand that had been driving her to distraction was now anchored under her leg, his warm touch helping the heat that seemed to be racing all over her body in no uncertain direction, just consuming her. His other hand now wrapped around her waist, bracing her just as his lips came into initial contact. As much as she knew it was coming, and had asked for it even, it was still unearthly to have this boy so close, so vulnerable, so accessible. It took her a moment to catch her bearings and continue to ask for more of what she wanted.

She'd heard her mother speak of the importance of first kisses. They could predict the future if you paid heed to the messages they held. As their lips parted and their silent explorations continued on, she envisioned only increasingly heated encounters, overwhelmed senses, and the growing incapacity of words to capture the passion that this boy was stirring up in her.

He pulled back slightly—not enough to make her think that he was finished with her—and she could only ingest the vision of him wanting her. Everything caught in her throat; her words, her longing, her breath. Surely there were words that could encapsulate this moment, that were necessary at a time like this. Words had always been her forte, but none seemed worthy of how he was able to make her feel. Or how incredible it was to know that he was reeling her back in, ready for more of the same in this very instant.

He was taking away her only form of defense.

It would be impossible to argue her way out of this, even mentally to convince herself, if no words would come. She was at his mercy, and the mercy of her own hormones, as he cradled her against him, leaving only enough space between them to grip at her. He seemed to graze for just the briefest of moments before needing to hang on for dear life, as if he might fall off the balcony without having her to cling to. She smiled into the kiss at the thought that he might be just as out of control as she was.

Like mother, like daughter, in deed.

She pulled back the next time. She gave a half smile, still too close to him to be able to properly focus on his features, but finding that she couldn't escape the intent imploring of his eyes.

"You okay?" he inquired.

"Yeah," she nodded. "I just, that wasn't like anything I've ever," she trailed off, figuring he had probably surmised so much about her before this moment of admission.

"That was nothing," he informed her, which didn't sit well with her at all. She pulled back farther out of his touch, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Fine, it was different for me, then," she looked past his shoulder, trying her best to shirk out of his reinforced attempts to pull her in closer against his chest.

"I just meant that in comparison to what's going to happen, if even a simple kiss gets to both of us like that," he said slowly, to increase her understanding, "that it will seem like nothing."

"Oh," she could feel the blush creep up her cheeks. "I still don't agree with you," she relaxed into his arms, despite her indignant tone.

"Now, there's a shocker," he teased.

"I just think that in a year from now, no matter what has or hasn't happened between us," she bit her lip as images of being in his bedroom, in his bed, covered by only him flashed through her mind, "that if I walked up to you and did this," she leaned up to kiss him again. He tangled one hand up into the back of her hair, stroking her scalp with his fingers and using it as leverage to tilt her head back slightly. She met the new angle with fervor, increasing the pressure of the kiss and pulling his bottom lip into her mouth. He groaned into her, as she relished the new taste of him that she couldn't quite seem to get enough of. "That it'd still feel as amazing as it does right now, when it's new," she finished her thought after she eased his lip out of her mouth, scraping along it with her teeth. She noticed how the blood had gathered to color the spot she'd worn with her attentions. "It would never feel like nothing."

"You should join the debate team," he cupped her face now in his hands. "You're quite convincing with your arguments, when you put your mind to it."

"I know," she smirked at him, causing him to laugh.

"So, are we quarantined out here, or can we go inside, where it's more comfortable?" he asked.

"Oh, uh, that's not a good idea. In fact, you probably shouldn't even still be here," she looked to the window that she'd climbed out of minutes earlier.

"Why?"

"I'm spending the night here tonight, and my grandma almost never leaves me alone for long when I'm here. She's always trying to hang out with me, like Mom does, trying to be more of a girlfriend, I guess," she shrugged.

"You're spending the night here?"

She nodded. "Mom went out of town, and she thought that," she began but stopped. "Anyhow, I'm here for the weekend."

"So, I can come back tomorrow evening?"

Her eyes filled up with hope at his words. His hands were warm against her back, and his body blocked her from the chilled breeze that reached them even through the trees. She never wanted to leave this spot, hating the fact she'd even told him he should go soon. It didn't matter that Emily could come looking for her at anytime to watch old movies or go through photo albums and find her out here, locked in what she would consider a passionate embrace. And it was. There was nothing but ardor on this balcony. She licked her lips and nodded.

"But don't come up here."

He frowned. "You want me to ring the doorbell and take up our rendezvous on your grandparents' couch? I'm sure they'd love that," he teased.

She smiled and shook her head, pushing him back slightly to allow herself the room to slide off the balcony's ledge. She turned to point out to the outbuilding in the back of the house.

"See that?"

"Pool house?" he inquired.

"Yeah. Meet me there, same time tomorrow?"

"Rory?" came the haughty voice from inside, clearly in pursuit already.

She looked up at him insistently, and he leaned down to place a quick kiss on her lips in promise. She held onto him, her hands around the back of his head to elongate the last moment that would carry her through the night.

"Tomorrow," he whispered as he climbed back over the side of the balcony. She leaned over, watching him, finally feeling the Shakespeare reference he'd made earlier.

"I'm glad you came," she whispered after him, before turning in to greet her grandmother and explain her need for some fresh air, and agree that it was a beautiful spring night, as her grandmother would go on to suggest. And she'd think to herself that Emily just simply had no idea how lovely it all was.

--&--

She slid into the warm water, thankful for the luxury of the life that her grandparents lived on this evening. It had been getting warm enough for a swim in the heat of the sun's rays during the day, but the constant winds of change that spring was filled with were much more noticeable after nightfall. Her grandparents had a heated pool, despite their near-total disuse of the addition to their grounds. It was a place for them to host summer cocktail parties, and that was all. A measure of wealthy living that was expected of them, not desired. She dipped her head under water, eager to feel covered in warmth like she had last night while still in his arms as she continued to wait for him.

She wondered what her mother was up to at this moment. She knew that her teacher had arranged for some remote accommodations out in the middle of the mountains for them, as they weren't eager to spread the knowledge of their budding-yet-again romance to the world. It'd almost cost him his job earlier in the year, Lorelai her heart, and Rory had suffered extreme embarrassment at the hands of her classmates when it had been discovered that her mother and teacher were something of an item. Since their break-up, life had gotten back to what Rory could consider normal, both at school and home.

At least, until recently. Suddenly out of nowhere, Lorelai and Max were together all the time, he'd slept over at their house, and her mother was glowy and humming to herself most all the time. If Rory hadn't been busy developing her own very intimate secrets, she might have been hurt that Lorelai was keeping her from all the details. She should just be glad her mother was happy, she supposed. She'd never seen her so happy, only when her father first shows up of an unplanned visit—the hope that maybe this time it's all different is a very powerful drug. Neither of them was immune to its effects.

"Thinking about me?" his voice caused her to whip around in the water, creating waves that lapped around her shoulders.

"You came."

"I promised I would, didn't I?" he stripped off his shirt and threw it onto a lounge chair with the towels she'd had the foresight to bring with her. He opted to ease himself into the pool from the side, rather than dive in and make excess noise. He dipped his head under, pushing off the side in one fluid motion, coming to rest at her side only moments later. His eyes popped open and he let some water out of his ears, now smiling as his focus fell on her.

"I've been waiting," she chastised him.

"I had to park down the block, and cut back through a couple of backyards. There is a not so friendly Doberman two yards over," he informed her.

She giggled. "Aw, you did all that for me?" she put her hand to his chest.

"Yeah," he put his hand over hers, holding it against him. She forgot to smile as she sought out his lips for the first time this evening. She supposed it was the water that had coated them in a chlorinated gleam, but there was a different quality to this meeting that made her unable not to taste the difference of the chemicals as they mixed with the taste of his lips, to feel how her hands slid over his moistened skin, to test the tightening in her stomach in the buoyant water versus being amid normal gravitational forces.

"I've been thinking about you all day," he confessed into her ear, "how you'd be waiting here for me, the way the bikini would cling to your skin in the water," he ran his teeth along the outer edge of her ear. "Did you think about me?"

She nodded into his neck, her skin feeling too tight over her body. She wanted him to do whatever it was that he must know how to do, to let her release all this energy that she couldn't contain much longer. Certainly not if he continued to talk about her like that, in that husky, demanding whisper he had. She felt his hands on her spandex-covered bottom, and he lifted her with ease through the water, so her center of gravity was met against his. Instinctively she wrapped her legs around his waist in efforts to secure her where he wished her to remain. She blushed, wondering if he could feel the heat that had pooled between her legs as she pressed into his torso.

"You're beautiful," he whispered.

It wasn't the first time he had expressed this to her, but it was the first time she accepted his sentiments without arguing the merits or his reasons for saying such things. Instead she thanked him wordlessly, her mouth now level with his, making it much easier to be in command of the action. She continued to kiss him, unraveling her cares and concerns about being outdoors in such a compromising position. She felt his fingers skim along the string that held her top in place, stroking them so that if he actually took hold as he moved along the length, he'd leave her bared to him.

"Tristan," she pulled back in a frenzy of uncertainty.

"Relax," he assured her with another kiss. His palms covered the still tied fabric, pressing it into her skin. She tried, but despite her reluctance to go much further than kissing, she couldn't deny the inclination to follow the sensations that consumed her body upward, disappearing (she could only imagine) into the clouds.

"More," she whispered, kissing his earlobe before taking it between her teeth, making him, she hoped, see the same kind of stars that the action evoked in her.

"Rory," he warned. "We don't have to rush this," he assured her.

"Just a little. Something, please," she looked into his eyes. Her make-up had long since washed off, and her eyes looked bluer in contrast to the water that danced around them. She could see his inability to fend her off, to deny her wishes. He kissed her hard all of a sudden, taking her off-guard and causing her legs to wrap tighter around his waist as he carried her against the side of the pool. He groaned at her vise grip, but didn't slow his motions. His lips seemed to be everywhere, all over her skin, as he moved his way from her mouth down her neck. Before she knew it, his lips were showering her collarbone, traveling down to follow the line of fabric that covered her breasts. She was aware of the tightening of her skin that had occurred; partially from the cooler night air, partially from the proximity to him. With her back held up by the sidewall, he brought one hand around to trace the edge of her top at first, going around the outside of the fabric, his skin on hers. She tilted her wet head back over the side of the pool at the sensations, wondering how far he was going to let her go this evening.

His fingers followed the outline twice more before moving inland, scraping over the drying fabric and across much more sensitive areas. She arched her back a bit, moving into his touch. He placed more kisses over her skin, just between her breasts, before moving over the fabric now with his mouth, placing chaste kisses over her nipple. Her hands were in his hair, threading and fisting, willing him to go on just a bit further. Take her a little bit more along the ride. His thumb brushed over the other breast as his lips continued to lavish attention on her through her top, and she let out a moan of appreciation. He continued on for a few more moments, they seemed to be over too quickly, but there was no real sense of time out in the middle of the water as he began to override every sense she had (until he showed up) been in command of. At long last, he rested his head into her chest, his hands firmly at her waist.

She could hear his labored breath. She ran a hand over his cheek and urged him up to meet her lips again.

"Thank you," she whispered, knowing that what he'd just done for her had cost him something, even if she wasn't quite sure of the restraint it had required or his trepidation of going too far at her insistence of 'just a little more'. Their scales of too much might never be on an even keel.

"Rory," he began, but met her lips instead. He kissed her thoroughly; leaving no doubt in her mind that this encounter would be picked up at a later date. They couldn't risk much more time tonight.

She watched him towel off and depart; leaning down once more for a kiss as she herself exited the pool and wrapped a towel around her now shivering body, with nothing else to keep her warm now.

She knew without a doubt that his body had overcome her mind.


	11. Part Eleven

Summary: Trory. Set Season One Post-TBP2 and Pre-LDAT. The Kiss at Madeline's Party never happened for the purposes of this fic.

Disclaimer: I own no rights to anything that is mentioned in my stories, including the main characters that I've borrowed for my plot manipulations.

Rating: M

Story Title: Untouched

Chapter Title: Part Eleven

AN: There aren't even good enough excuses as to why this took so long. Extreme laziness/tiredness/withdrawal and intrusion of other stories have come into play. It was half done for the last five days. But I did get it done. And there will be more, but I make no promises such as a time frame. As soon as I can, I promise that. In the mean time, I hope you enjoy.

Instant gratification was a tenet of his belief system.

Waiting was for losers who didn't have the status or means to have what they wanted now. To earn the coveted prize, or said prize being made sweeter in the between time were not proverbs spoken in his home. Wants and needs: the line between them was so badly kinked and never tested; he mightn't have known which basic necessities he might die without. Or which of his wants were truly basic necessities.

All he knew was want. But going without her turned his craving for her touch into need. She was his basic necessity.

At first it seemed like a dream. After all, it wouldn't have been the first time he'd postulated such manifestations of his desire for her during a REM cycle. But it was the first time he came away from such a vision with the feel of aroused skin under slippery spandex against his lips. The first time his hands could still almost feel the soft curve of her hip from where he held her against him. The first time he couldn't shake the feeling of loss now that her legs weren't laced around his midsection.

His lack of concentration on anything, save for paling attempts to reenact those brief moments of passion in his mind, was showing readily. His attention had been called out in nearly every single class of the day thus far. His apologies were weak, as his willingness to let her slip out of his mind and for something as meaningless as the Spanish Civil War to occupy where he was happy to let her stay. Though from the daggers she kept shooting him upon the reprimands that kept interrupting her classes, her precious learning time, he could tell that she would be happy if he could just maintain the ability to focus, even for just forty minutes at a time, on anything but her.

She wasn't unaffected by their time together, either. There was something about her, something specific in her gait, something in her eyes that he could clearly tell that something in her life had shifted since she walked around these same halls the Friday before.

He wasn't the only one that paid heed to the difference that she was exuding. A fact that became blaringly obvious to him about halfway through the lunch period.

They'd gone about their own routines, the same as always, him retreating to the crowd he normally surrounded himself with, despite the near chemical draw his body was feeling for the chance to be near her. A fix. He steered his feet in their usual path, knowing he'd get his chance soon enough. She sat alone at the end of a table not so far that he couldn't keep his glance directed her way, but at a distance that wasn't inviting either. Her head phones were in place, her book was open, and she was content to block out the world around her. Himself included.

It was the sound of her startled voice that caught his attention away from whatever Josh had been trying to talk to him into. She never spoke at lunch, and rarely spoke in class unless specifically answering an instructor's question. It was part of her enigma, part of why every other boy in this school held her as some sort of mythic dream girl. But no one ever approached her beside him.

Until now.

"I said, what are you listening to?"

"You've never heard of them," she imparted on the boy that leered too closely over her shoulder.

"Are you sure about that? Because I'm really into music. Try me."

"I don't want to try you. I want to go back to listening and reading in peace."

"How can you even do that? Shouldn't you be focusing on one or the other?"

"I'm sure the one brain cell in your head would probably have trouble multitasking, but I'm all set. Thanks for your concern."

"DuGrey," Josh knocked into his elbow. "Are you in or out? Are you even listening?" his friend tried to bring him back to the table, and out of the build-up of emotion that was about ready to erupt out of his veins. He stood up, not bothering to right his chair against the table, and walked over to where Rory still sat with the leech who was attempting to annoy his way into her life.

"Are you deaf or stupid?" he asked plaintively.

"Tristan," she warned.

"Excuse me, but I don't see how this is your business," the other guy informed him.

"What are you, new? Everything in this school is my business."

"Guess I didn't get that memo. If she's your girl, you shouldn't leave her sitting all alone like this."

"She's not my girl. I just don't see why you can't respect the privacy of someone who clearly doesn't want to be bothered."

"Tristan, thank you, but I can handle this," she glowered at him.

"Obviously," he shot back. "So, you leaving, or am I escorting you away?" he returned his gaze back to the clueless idiot that still stood behind her chair.

"You just said she wasn't your girl," he blinked. "So why would I leave?"

"I have a boyfriend. And I don't think either of you wants to continue this line of conversation, because he really is the only one that he's comfortable with defending my honor. Now, if you'll excuse me, as intriguing as this little skit has been, it doesn't really hold a candle to Neruda or Modest Mouse."

And with that she shot Tristan a look, ignoring the other boy altogether, before turning her Discman back on and opening her book to where she'd left off thanks to the unusual disruption to her day. As Tristan hesitated to watch the other contender walk off first, he moved back over to garner odd looks from his friends. He couldn't count them as confidants, so he ignored their confusion and left the cafeteria altogether, off to put a stop to his inability to focus.

--&--

He'd been waiting back in the stacks, surrounded by long drawers that contained musical scores from everything from great Beethoven symphonies to the score from _Titanic_. He'd been in the music library before, finding it empty enough to accommodate lunchtime or study hall rendezvous in the past. It was the perfect hideaway; still on school grounds but rarely frequented during school hours. And in the back stacks it was easy to right clothing in the time in between hearing any intruders and being come upon by said interrupters. He was sure she'd never come here before. She had no musical aspirations and she wasn't the kind of girl to give up time that could be spent reading—never mind the fact that she'd never give a thought to allowing him to slide her panties off on school grounds, leaving just the scratchy wool skirt covering her, rubbing her sensitive skin raw as he pressed her back into the metal cabinets, working his hands quickly and effectively over her body to maximize the effect in the brief time that the environment secured for them.

At least, not yet.

When he heard the soft clip of her saddle shoes against the hardwood floors, he moved only his head. He remained leaned back against the drawers, hands shoved in pockets, as he took in her harassed features. She was clearly displeased with having to meet him here in between classes and still attempting to make it to her next lecture on time. She'd no time for this; she wasn't used to trying to squeeze him into her routine.

"You got my note," he nodded.

"What do you want, Tristan, I have class," she informed him.

"Skip it," he now extracted his hands from his pockets and moved closer to her, reaching out to trace the line of her neck.

"I can't do that," she stepped back, just out of his reach again. He wasn't putting up with that now, not after the morning he'd spent in the same torture. In sight and out of grasp. He reached out and gripped her by the hips, spinning them around so she was positioned against the metal filing cabinets. She let out a small sound of surprise, and perhaps protest, but he silenced her with his lips rubbing harshly over hers.

He felt her stiffen at the brashness of his actions, the submissiveness he was subjecting her to, and for a moment considered his instinctual motions as a mistake. Until he felt her give into the ferocity of his want. His need.

She forgot to push against his chest with her hands for a moment, he could tell as she softened her efforts for a moment before balling his shirt up with her fists, pulling him closer to her. He'd have wrinkles there for the rest of the day, a reminder of this interlude. The attack of his lips became a back and forth, a give and take as they rocked each other against and away from the filing cabinet until her grip became solid again, pushing him away as he rocked back away from her, still caught up in the taste of her. Coffee remnants and vanilla lip gloss.

"I shouldn't be here, I shouldn't have come here like this," she opened her eyes to reveal a heady look through dark lashes.

"Then why did you come?" he pressed, taking a step away from the other wall that was equally lined with labeled filing bins where her push had sent him.

"You asked me to, you said," she paused as he got dangerously close to her personal space again as his hand reached out for her waistline. The meeting place of cotton and wool, comfort and abrasion.

"I said I needed to talk to you," he nodded; moving just a fraction of an inch closer, willing her to raise her chin, even in defiance. He wanted to see her eyes, full on, to be able to gauge her true reactions.

"So, talk."

"I need to see you," his arms slid around her waist again, relishing in the feel of her breasts as they pressed into his ribcage. It was a wholly different sensation from that night in the pool, but even through his starched shirt and her sweater vest, the desire to be closer to her still held.

"You've seen me all day," she reminded, her tone scathing. "What was that about before? You can't just be doing things like that!"

He lowered his gaze, almost feeling remorseful at his actions. "At lunch?"

"Yes, at lunch, when you ran over to defend my honor in front of the whole school! What were you thinking?"

"I didn't like the way the guy was taking liberties," he informed her, meeting her gaze again.

"I can take care of myself," she said assuredly.

"I don't want you to have to," he said, his grip now tighter, as he held her nearer.

The first bell rang, sounding her need to be released from the confines of his arms, as well as the library. She had class to get to, as he did, but for some reason, she remained in place, burrowed against his torso, hearing him out.

"I need to see you alone," he insisted.

"To work on the project?" she asked, staring at his lips that were in her direct line of view.

"To do whatever it is you want to do," he promised, bending down to kiss her again. Her hands worked up into his hair as she melted into him once more. When they broke the kiss, she stood still in place with his hands supporting her, and he kept his eyes closed as her breath fell against his neck. When she looked up at him again, she bit her lip.

"I'll meet you at the bus stop after school," she promised before grabbing her bag and taking off as the final bell sounded. He was in no hurry, giving himself time to collect his thoughts and control over his emotions before he followed in her harried footsteps.

--&--

She got into his car wordlessly; without coercion or the ruse of a game. No one was around to need convincing, and they both knew why they were there and where they were going. If she hated the music he was pumping over his speakers, loud enough to make the seats vibrate, she made no sign of attempting to change it. He had been blaring Incubus all weekend, since he took leave of her grandparents house still in his swim trunks, feeling more sexual frustration and confusion rushing through him than he thought possible.

He cut the ignition inside his parent's garage and turned to look at her, as she was still lost in whatever world she'd been in since Medina's class. He wasn't even sure if she was aware he'd come into class ten minutes after the bell rang. This was more than her running hot and cold on him.

"Did you get the same riot act that I got in Medina's class?"

"Huh?" she asked, snapping her head to face him.

"You were late, too, right?"

"Oh, yeah, I mean, no, he didn't say anything to me."

Tristan frowned. "You're kidding me, he didn't say anything? He spouted back the fucking Chilton conduct handbook to me, and he said nothing to you?"

"God, what is your problem? You were the reason I was late, and now you're upset that I didn't get into trouble? He didn't give you detention, Tristan, not that he shouldn't, I mean, it's not your first tardy, is it? You've been late, caught up between classes plenty of times before," she shot back.

"What the hell is your problem?" he asked, now just agitated. He couldn't tell if she was upset at the idea of him and other girls, which he'd made no bones about before and wasn't going to deny now, but she had to know that none of those girls meant a damn thing to him. He'd made that as clear as he could up to this point. "If other girls were your problem to begin with, you should have never started down this path, Rory."

"Take me home," she crossed her arms, facing forward in the leather seat.

"Like hell, tell me what you're so upset about," he reached over to grab her arm and turn her to face him, easily accomplished in such close quarters.

"I don't have a problem," she narrowed her eyes. "No, wait, I do have a problem, Tristan. My problem is that this," she pointed between them, "is getting out of hand. I mean, I get the whole not telling people because of whatever reasons, but I didn't sign up for missing class, having what class I do get to on time interrupted because you can't keep your eyes to yourself, and having all my study time obliterated because you can't keep your hands to yourself!"

He was seething. He knew she was blaming him for her inability to keep control of her emotions, and perhaps that was true. She'd never experienced the kind of loss of control that comes along with that strong a pull of physical attraction. Hell, he was having a hard time owning up to his inability to assuage his desires as well. But he'd be damned if she was going to blame him for things that required two to engage in.

He wasn't the drug dealer in this scenario. He was the guy that couldn't stop himself from consuming the drug.

"If you care to remember, you were the one to invite me up on that balcony, where not only could we not study, but you asked me to kiss you. And then you invited me, not the other way around, to come back the next night. You were the one in the fucking string bikini, begging me to go a little farther, wrapping your legs around me tighter, making those sounds where I couldn't tell if I was hurting you or driving you over the edge into ecstasy. Do not," he leaned in to the point that their noses were almost touching, "blame this all on me. And if you want to tell people, fine by me. Tell everyone you know," he dared.

She swallowed, but didn't cower away from him. "We can't do that."

"I didn't think so," he said, softer this time.

"There's a reason he didn't yell at me," she said, in a barely audible tone.

"What?" his tone turned curious, and his hand slipped down from her elbow to her hand.

"Mr. Medina, Max," she said purposefully. "There's a reason he didn't say anything when I came in late."

"Max?" he inquired, wholly confused as to when she began calling teachers by their first name, even outside of school. It wasn't her nature to show a lack of respect for her mentors.

"Do you remember earlier this year, when Paris let it leak that my mom had been dating him?"

He nodded. Even he'd used it as an excuse to tease her, though at the moment he'd approached her, she'd known nothing of the incident that set it all off. As soon as she heard she'd stormed out of the cafeteria, and he'd been able to hear her screaming at her mother from outside the stairwell. Her mother had broken up with him that day, he'd hear her say.

"Well, lately, they've started dating again, secretly, sort of, but seriously. And now, they've decided to get married. He proposed this weekend, on the weekend trip he took her on this past weekend. It's why I was at my grandparents."

"That's," he drew in a breath, "really weird."

"Yeah. Tell me about it."

"Do you not like him, I mean, with your mom?" he asked, knowing she'd always enjoyed his class, if nothing because it was one of her favorite subject areas. Books.

"No, it's fine. It's just," she bit her lip in thought, considering what it was that was unhinging her so much about the whole ordeal. "There've never been guys in the picture. Not ones that threatened to change the outcome, you know?"

"The outcome?"

She nodded and held hold of his hand as a measure of support before continuing. "I'm supposed to not realize boys exist until the second before I'm ready to get married, which is after I graduate from an Ivy League school and start my career in journalism. This is all accomplished while my mother starts her own business and raises me, the brilliant offspring that she had and took care of all by herself, against all odds. Having people, male people especially, come in changes the whole picture. She gets married and suddenly it's not me and her against the world. It's she can't wait 'til I go to college so she can begin her new life."

The tears that filled her eyes as she spoke began falling down her cheek at this point, and she raised their joined hands up slightly off her lap, as if to show him the entwined evidence. "And you, my being around you just decreases my chances for going to college and being something better than what she was able to become," she admitted softly, as if she were ashamed of the very thought.

"How?" he shook his head, again feeling blame and guilt for something that he could not control.

She looked up at him and squeezed his hand. "Because I don't want to say no to you. Because I want you to touch me, and look at me the way you do; I love that you can't focus on anything when I'm around, because I can't either. You knew it, too, that night in the pool, you knew that you could have had anything you wanted from me."

He shook his head in disbelief. There were issues and concerns quelled up in her that he'd never imagined. He reached out and touched her face, causing her eyes to close at the soft pressure he applied as he hooked his fingers around her ear to pull her in to him. He didn't kiss her, he just rested his forehead against hers, breathing her in.

"Why did you?"

"Why did I what?" he asked, still trying to wrap his mind around the whole of her confession.

"Why did you hold back, if you knew I wouldn't say no?"

"Because you're worth waiting for. You have been so far."

It was her turn to initiate contact this time, as she kissed him with a fervor he knew she had been holding somewhere inside of her. She had been driving him crazy in parts, unknowingly and unforgivingly up to this point, but now she had a purpose and a drive. She was discovering the kind of hold she had on him, one similar to what he held her enraptured with. He could feel his resolve slipping away each time she unlocked more of that knowledge, and he wasn't sure either of them were ready for the total dissolution yet.

But he did know that his gratification would but complete, if not instant, this time around.


	12. Part Twelve

Summary: Trory. Set Season One Post-TBP2 and Pre-LDAT. The Kiss at Madeline's Party never happened for the purposes of this fic.

Disclaimer: I own no rights to anything that is mentioned in my stories, including the main characters that I've borrowed for my plot manipulations.

Rating: M

Story Title: Untouched

Chapter Title: Part Twelve

She was used to keeping secrets.

From the time she was old enough to talk, she knew better than to discuss her personal home life with her grandparents, or else face the wrath of her disparaged and battle-worn mother. By age five, she was sneaking candy bars and stashing cool clothes in her backpack for her best friend so Lane could be able to enjoy a normal childhood existence, and more importantly, not get beat up on the playground because of her strict religious upbringing and the lack of childhood comforts it brought along with it.

Secrets weren't lies; they were truths too good to be ruined by being shared with those set out to squelch dreams. She was simply being the consummate good daughter, best friend, trusted confidant.

Up until now, all the secrets she held within her were in protection of other people. This secret she now held within her, it was all about her. She was keeping what this boy had become to her to herself, and for what? For her protection? This was one topic she did not even want to think about. One he seemed to understand, but rarely, if ever, pressed with her. He seemed to know if he did, it might all unravel; that she was always just on the verge of unraveling.

They'd silently agreed it would be simple, more advantageous, for the both of them to keep their increased acceptance of each other under wraps. School, she knew without a doubt, would become a battleground again should they be found out. The people who were cool to her would be again downright frigid, knowing she had finally done what they feared—taken their loftiest goal out of their loose grasp.

Was that all she was afraid of? Is that why he was so keen on keeping their encounters under the veil of closed doors and unused structures? These were the questions that filled her as she sat holding her phone in her hand, watching her mother gather her belongings to enjoy her first evening out with her fiancée. She'd promised to call Tristan the moment her mom left the house, so he could pick her up and take her to another party. She didn't know where, she didn't want to let herself ask, she just wanted to go and be with him. So they could revel in the sanctity of what was so newly theirs, not tainted by anyone else's opinions or objections.

Maybe that was just it.

Smiling firmly at her mother, Rory promised she'd be home when Lorelai got back from her date.

"You should go, get out of the house. See if Lane wants to hit the Black, White, and Read."

Rory shrugged. "Well, maybe. We'll see. I might just stay in or go to the library."

Lorelai put her arm around her daughter's shoulders. "You've been hermity lately. And I know that's part of your charm, you've never been a soc, but maybe you should reach out a little bit. I know the break-up was hard on you," she soothed.

"Mom, I don't wanna talk about it," she shrugged her off.

"And I've been, well, busy," she continued.

"I'm fine, Mom, really. Just, go, say hi to Max, be happy. I'll find a way to amuse myself."

Lorelai smiled sadly at her daughter, obviously not believing a word she said. She couldn't contain her own happiness, the giddiness of her new engagement consuming her thoughts. Rory believed her mother deserved it, as odd as it was for the two women not to share every feeling, every thought, every second.

"Okay. But if you need me to come home early, or you decide you want some girl time, you know, turn up Fiona on the stereo, break out the Ben and Jerry's, you'll call me?"

Rory had to smile. Her mom was intent on her wallowing, to get over the pain of her supposed heartache. If only she knew, each second she spent droning on about losing Dean was another second Tristan spent circling the block, waiting to pick her up.

"I promise. Now, scoot," she instructed, pushing her mother toward the front door.

Her mother disappeared behind the door, and she picked the phone back up, dialing quickly.

"It's me. She's gone."

--&--

She was knelt down to her knees in the dirt, waiting to see what she hoped would be the familiar line of his jaw in place of her dusty reflection in the glass. She reminded herself that this would be easier than climbing a tree, with just as equal a chance of being discovered as that first time—less, in fact, as Tristan would be the one looking for her, retrieving her, pulling her down into the basement, rather than her climbing unwittingly through a strange window that she might have miscounted and entered mistakenly. But nothing really made the waiting any less nerve-wracking, nothing took the sheer anticipation out of his knowing smile meeting hers.

The waiting didn't do the moment of truth justice—it was a blur from seeing him enter her line of view and his hand reaching out to help her slide her legs out to lift her down to the floor to rest beside him. Suddenly she was slightly out of breath and completely alone with him in the cool confines of a wine cellar.

"Whose house are we at?" her attempt at small talk had nothing to do with anything really; she couldn't even say that it mattered at all. It was a detail to be included in no story she would tell anyone. It wouldn't even be woven into a carefully constructed one, her telling where she had gone, what she had done, careful to leave Tristan out of any mention of the setting. It would, instead, be like this never happened. Like they were each a figment of the other's imaginations; existing only for one another.

And that, as wrong as it might be, made her smile.

"Rory? Did you even hear me?" he asked, reaching his hand out to place on her shoulder. Obviously she'd been caught up too much in her own thoughts. She wanted that to stop. She just wanted to stop, here and now, with him. Using his grasp on her as a beacon, she pulled her body against his and tipped up to press her lips into his.

He caught her as the sudden trajectory of her body began to spin them crashing back into nearly priceless collections of spirits. He pulled her flush against him, cradling her in his arms as she let her lips convey her relief at finally being alone with him yet again. The time between their interludes was growing too long; her inability to bring herself to suggest more frequent visits only one of the hindrances to ending their moratoriums.

She didn't understand the need to taste him over and over again, each time just barely remaining unable to decide what flavor it was her tongue would meet as her rendered her senseless. Yet she was increasingly aware the lack of him tasted bitter, acrid. Nothing else could replace it.

Her back met the door, the knob digging in just to the side of her spine, but his hands running down the sides of her shirt made up for the protrusion. His hands ran over her stomach, bare skin seeking bare skin, climbing higher and higher as his lips traveled south to meet them along the same path. Her head turned down into her opposite shoulder, her eyes screwed shut as he made her shiver at the kisses he showered down her neck and collarbone.

So lost in wanting to be taken over by what he was able to do to her, she thought she was imagining the far-off voices. It was only when his mouth paused, deeply pressed against the hollow of her flushed collarbone, that she opened her eyes to help her focus on her immediate surroundings and the likelihood that they were about to be intruded upon.

"Tristan?" she whispered.

"Shh, come on," he slid his hands out from under her shirt, and she noticed that not only was the hand she took hold of trembling, but his voice was ragged from his slightly labored breathing. She followed him down a small corridor, into a darker, colder enclosure that allowed for only standing room for two or three bodies.

She looked up into his eyes as he nodded, and they heard the faint voices grow louder until the door to the cellar opened. Two boys, whom she might have recognized in better light or in the tell-tale colors of their school, came in and approached the farthest wall of the main wine cellar. They seemed to know what they were after, made their selections, and disappeared as quickly as they'd come without ever having looked down the direction they were stowed away in.

"That was close," she breathed, shivering now from the cold environment, his body heat not even enough to keep her warmed.

"Guess hiding with the alcohol isn't the best place at one of these parties," he acknowledged, laughing softly. "You want me to try to find somewhere else? I should go make a sweep anyhow," he ran one hand through her hair, which she'd left down this evening.

"No, I'll just go wait in the car. I should be home early tonight anyhow—Mom's worried about me, she'll be home early."

"Worried?" his tone matched the one her mother had used earlier this evening.

She shook her head and smiled. "Yeah, she's afraid I'm not getting out enough."

A smile broke out over his face in understanding. "Ah, I see," he kissed her again. "If you'd like to go out, I can take care of that."

She didn't respond, not wanting to know what would be demanded of her should that ever happen. The way they were approaching this, ensuring their privacy each time, it allowed her to ask for things that she might be too timid to ask for with actual words. She wasn't the kind of girl to let her emotions overtake her in a public place—she couldn't imagine slamming him into a row of lockers at school or practically sitting in his lap at a restaurant. But she was growing in her confidence to let him know how much she wanted to know what it would be like to let him consume just a little bit more of her, in private; to let him in on the secret that she wasn't who everyone thought she was.

"I'll be in the car, if you can give me a lift up out of here," she evaded, walking slowly out to the main room of the basement. He reached up to unlatch the high window again and bent down slightly, with his hands clasped in front of him. She took a hold of his shoulders to steady herself and hesitantly placed one foot on his joined hands. Looking up at his face for certainty, he smirked.

"I can lift you, it's impossible that you're too heavy," he nodded.

Blushing at the fact that he could read her mind, she did as he instructed and turned to grab hold of the window ledge as he lifted her into the air. She wiggled up through the opening and turned at the last minute at his calling of her name.

"Keys?" he asked, holding them out in offering. She smiled at him and nodded. "Give me five minutes," he instructed, and she didn't hear him shut the window again until she was a good way from the house, near the safety of his car with privacy-tinted windows.

She eased herself inside, closing her eyes in relief, happy to be somewhere familiar. She ran her fingertips over the buttery-soft leather that covered the interior, not registering the lush of luxury as anything other than as comforting as her own quilt that covered her bed at home. Her fingers traced over the unlit control panel and the console between the two bucket seats, her tour turning her slightly in her seat until she was looking intently at the empty backseat of his car. Her pulse sped up, and she grabbed tight to the edge of her seat. She'd heard girls, mainly Madeline and Louise—for no other girls she knew were quite so experienced (or just plain open about said experience)—talk about having trysts in the backseats of their boyfriend's sports cars. It'd seemed odd to her, and highly unlikely, that anyone could contort themselves in order to have anything resembling fun in such a small, unforgiving space. She'd never encountered a backseat that looked so accommodating, and even now she couldn't peg where his legs would have to be in order for her to fully recline back into….

A knock came to the window, jolting her out of her mental drawing board, and she popped the locks so that he could join her in her state of confusion.

"You okay?" he asked, noting the still contorted shape of her mouth and the puzzlement that her eyes held.

"I'm fine," she assured him, handing him the keys.

"You're sure?"

She nodded, happy to let this line of thought drop. She didn't want to have to ask him these questions; to make him feel like he was teaching a sex education class. Class one, heightening arousal; class two, making out in backseats for dummies; class three, how to put a condom on something other than a prop banana. Her cheeks blushed furiously despite her mental admonishment to remain confident and collected in moments that they weren't frantically learning each other's bodies.

They rode in amiable, if not hesitant, silence for the better part of the drive. He cut down his speed as he took the exit toward her town, and finally she could feel his gaze warming the side of her face. She smiled and flashed her eyes at him quickly before turning her attention back to her hands that were clasped tightly in her lap.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, really."

"You wanted to leave, you said," he reminded her.

"I know. I did, I need to get home."

"Then, what is it?" he asked again, not going to let her get away with half-truths or omissions. He knew her style, and it wasn't his to let her get away with anything out of the realm of their personal dealings; she should have expected none less now.

"I don't," she closed her eyes, "We barely get time," she started again, "and I don't want this to be banished to backseats and storage closets," she threw in another example of her looser friends' prior stories.

"Was I supposed to be able to follow that? Because you took a wrong turn into crazy there somewhere," he began. "I don't even think you added a subject into any of those sentences."

"I don't need a grammar lesson, Tristan," she warned, her eyes now flashing the frustration that had been building up in her since entering his car.

"What do you need, Rory?" he shot back.

She glared at him, now not wanting to tell him, since he so clearly knew. He just wanted to hear her admit it, was that it? She crossed her arms, not wanting to play games just to increase his ego. He pulled up in front of her house and cut the ignition quickly.

"What is it you want?" he reiterated.

She looked up at him again, unable to stop her words from leaving her mouth. "Come back later."

His eyes widened. Clearly she'd thrown him off-guard. "Like tomorrow?"

"Later," she swallowed, knowing if she didn't say it now, she'd lose her nerve, "tonight."

"Rory," his tone softened, "I don't think," he cleared his throat, the words evidently not willing to come out of him.

"You don't have to if you don't want to," she stared at her hands that were still wringing themselves in her lap. She let go, moving them down to grasp each side of the bucket seat, careful not to dig her nails into the leather. She took another breath and looked up at him, still sputtering in his seat next to her. "But I want you to."

"What about your mom? I thought you didn't want her to know," he began again, still unable to finish a whole negating thought. She took that as a good sign that he'd return.

"She goes to bed around eleven-thirty. She sleeps like the undead," she assured him, though a cocked eyebrow told of his disbelief. "Seriously, I think a tornado actually hit our house once, and she didn't even turn over."

A smile played at his lips, and she realized he'd not been privy to her truly silly side much. She'd kept such a tough outer shell up around him for such a long time, dropping it only long enough to reveal a much softer underbelly lately. They'd had no in-between.

"So, midnight?" he asked. "Where do I go?"

"See that window, right there?" she pointed out her bedroom window, now darkened along with the rest of the house.

"Yeah," he looked back at her.

"I'll have my reading light on," she assured him. "You won't be able to miss it."

"I don't really understand," he started, but she unlatched her seatbelt, leaned over the small gap between their seats, and breathed him in before kissing him. Her hands cupped his face, a gesture he made to her all the time, but new enough to him to stun him into stillness for longer than she'd known him to be in the past. His lips began to move against hers, parting to her insistent tongue. When she felt he was following her line of thought, as muddled and unsure as it was, she pulled back, him catching her lips in one more quick meeting before she let go of his face altogether.

"So, you'll come?"

He nodded. His eyes were full of what she knew now to be lust and longing, as they shined that way only when she felt like she was ready to burst at the seams herself. She felt the door release out blindly, still looking at him as she moved to slip out of the vehicle.

She paused before shutting the door. "It's the secret part of it," she admitted.

"What?" he asked, clearly confused by her bursts of random information.

"When you asked me if I was okay, I was thinking about how we keep this a secret. Sometimes, I'm glad we do. It's easy, and it allows more freedom in a way," she let out a breath. "But other times, it makes it impossible for me to really know," her voice caught, and she feared that tears would begin to fall down her cheeks. She knew her eyes were shining alarmingly.

"I know," he assured her, cutting her off quickly enough to truly cause a shot of confidence to surge through her body. "Get inside, I'll be back at midnight."

She nodded silently, still fearful of tears—be them of relief or trepidation—and closed the car door to let him depart. She stood watching the taillights grow dim before turning off her street altogether. She looked down at her watch, noting that she still had two hours until his return, as per her hormone-driven request. She wandered inside, still wondering about the duality of keeping this relationship separate from the rest of her life.

She knew only that she was unable to keep secrets from him.


	13. Part Thirteen

Summary: Trory. Set Season One Post-TBP2 and Pre-LDAT. The Kiss at Madeline's Party never happened for the purposes of this fic.

Disclaimer: I own no rights to anything that is mentioned in my stories, including the main characters that I've borrowed for my plot manipulations.

Rating: M

Story Title: Untouched

Chapter Title: Part Thirteen

AN: Thanks to K, who told me this didn't suck. She rocks like that. I know these chapters are taking longer than my usual speed, but I love you all for not complaining and reviewing so religiously. I'd give you all pretty sparklies for it if I could. Or you know, a cookie. Whatever you prefer. Enough of my babbling. You wanted to read the next chapter, right? And for those of you who waited so patiently, it's longer, and some steamier content thrown in for the faithful Trory fans...

* * *

He was nervous. 

He hadn't given name to the energy coursing through his system since she'd asked him to return two hours prior, but as he watched his hands tremble uncontrollably upon reaching out to catch the edge of her window so he could ease it open, he could no longer mistake it for sheer excitement or lust.

Lust didn't affect his hands. It didn't even make its way north of his abdomen. It didn't hold the power to cloud his thoughts or taint his tongue with the memory of her taste. It didn't emblazon the look of her imploring eyes as she asked him for more in his memory.

He stayed low to the ground, wanting to calm his nerves before he let her know he had arrived. He never knew what she would ask of him; he never knew how much restraint he would have to exert. But shaking upon arrival surely didn't signify an ability to hold back, let alone to instill confidence in her.

Taking one more deep breath as he saw a soft light click on from within the room, he once again found the lip and eased his fingertips underneath it. He lifted it up gently and was grateful that the window that looked to be in need of repainting and who knew what other repairs slid up easily.

She looked terrified, as if he were here not out of invitation, but rather a lazy cat burglar that had gotten lucky on his first try into the house. He held up his hand in greeting, afraid to speak, lest her mother not be quite the sound sleeper Rory had described her as. He stifled a chuckle as she returned the gesture, clearly not in practice of allowing boys in through her bedroom window after curfew.

"Hey," she said finally, standing up from her perch on the bed. He took another step into the room, shutting the window behind him.

"Hey," he whispered, looking around her room. He hadn't made it far into the house on his one and only prior visit, but it seemed in keeping with the cozy, homey feeling of the living room. He saw remnants of her childhood—dolls and girlish pictures—alongside items that signified times to come—posters of far off lands and college pennants. He wondered what exactly spoke of her now; who she really was.

"You're early," she pointed out.

"I couldn't find anything else to do," he admitted. "I thought about going back to the party, but I ended up just driving halfway there and back a few times," he trailed off as she stood listening to him ramble. "I just wanted to see you," he finished.

She gave a soft smile. "Do you enjoy those parties?"

He studied her features. The way the corners of her mouth upturned slightly to match the corners of her eyes. Her cheeks were brushed with a light pink stain, as if she's run down a flight of stairs just before he climbed through her window.

"Not especially."

"Be vaguer," she rolled her eyes, taking a baby step toward him. He noticed that he could feel the urge to allow his hands to tremble all the way up his arms, but he willed them to remain steady at his sides as she continued to approach him, asking him questions seemingly to take his mind off of his surroundings and the possibilities that lie in wait for them.

"What's there to enjoy?"

"You tell me, you're the one that gets to go through the rabbit hole," she shrugged as her tone remained playful.

"It's more like a looking glass, all those vain people who worry that their hair has fallen out of place," he joked back.

She let out a tiny snicker. "I think yours is a bit mussed from your entry," she reached a hand up to correct his locks. He remained still, allowing her fingers to run along his scalp, through more than just the allegedly out of place hair.

"Rory," he began, but she shook her head.

"Tell me more. What do you normally do?"

He ran his teeth over his top lip. "Meet up with friends. Drink. Relax."

"What about girls?" she kept eye contact as she nailed him in place.

"What about them?"

"Surely if you get bored so easily you find ways to entertain yourself," she led.

"I've never found anything that makes me want to keep coming back for more," he assured her, longing for her hand to slide out of his hair and down his cheek.

"Then why do you keep going?"

He knew what she was asking; he just hoped she could accept his answer for what it was.

"None of the people who go to those parties really want to be there," he reached up and grabbed her hand that had begun its slow, hypnotic descent down the side of his head, aimed for his neck, eventually his torso. He intertwined their fingers and held her hand against his chest. "We're simply the children of people who mingle together in efforts to keep their status high and their family lines propagated with more of the same status-hungry, overindulged offspring. It's like a merry-go-round that never stops revolving."

"If you hate it that much, why don't you just jump off?"

"It's really not that easy," he smiled softly at her suggestion. "I wish it were; but you have to understand my position. I'm the only son of an only son—I have obligations to fulfill. The only thing I can really do is try to grab happiness where I find it—but that means adding it to the game, not replacing one with the other."

"Oh," she nodded. "But you're not, I mean, we," she furrowed her brow; he was sure only seeing the great lengths they'd gone to in order to keep this under wraps. All the secret meetings he'd both initiated or agreed to becoming ways to hide her and not embed her into his life.

"I know you detest all of it; the attitudes, the ideals, the money. You've never been shy about throwing your thoughts about my lifestyle in my face. I didn't want to even presume to think that you'd want to get involved in all of that," he watched as guilt washed over her face. "But it's like I couldn't not bring you as close as I could."

"You're right," she let out a breath. "I don't care for any of that," she took another step, so that their clasped hands were now sandwiched between their bodies—his hand suddenly pressed between her breasts. "But that has nothing to do with how I feel about you."

He closed his eyes, unable to get his next question out of his mind. It was now or never—take the perfect opportunity or forever let it remain out of his knowledge.

"And how do you feel about me?"

Her hand grazed his cheek, coaxing his eyes back open.

"When I'm with you? You make me believe the things you say," she admitted. "You make me want to feel your words," she took hold of his other hand now, pulling him backward toward her small, twin-sized bed, "I want you to do all those things you said you could do," she whispered.

"And when you're not with me?" he managed, following her lead, waiting for the right moment to take control of the situation.

"Make me forget about that," she closed her eyes now, her tone pleading. His breath hitched in his throat as he felt the back of her legs bump against her unmade bed. This moment was the kind that his dreams were made of; a good girl compliant to let him make her bad, sneaking him into her home so that he could strip her first of her clothing and then of her innocence.

He struggled for coherency—he tightened his grasp on her hand. "Look, I know that you feel this way now, but trust me, as soon as this becomes something real," he spoke softly now in tenderness, not fear of waking anyone else that might be in the house.

She was quiet for a moment, her whole body coming to a standstill as his words washed over her. She relinquished her grasp on his hand, prying her smaller hand out from his. He let his hand fall from between their bodies and took a step back to allow her space. He was sure her next move would be to tell him to leave, calling it all off. That she wanted nothing more to do with him past getting a good grade on their project that was due up this coming week—after that, their lives would go on as before. Complete separation. No more experimentation into the unknown.

Now he was terrified—there was nothing he could do or say to change her mind.

Trying to take advantage of the knowledge that these were those last few moments, he did his best to prepare to leave her by taking one last, long look at her. He memorized the way the yellow light cast over the side of her face, meeting pale skin and sharp features, the curve of her breast as the soft cotton of her tank top outlined it.

He was taken aback as she edged her fingertips along the hem of her shirt, and he became hypnotized by her motions as she lifted the border of her shift slowly, revealing at first only the smooth, flat plane of her stomach. He slid his gaze up to meet her eyes as she took a breath of courage before she continued to peel the thin top up over her head, discarding it finally without thought on the floor at his feet. He drank in the sight of her, as if he'd never seen another woman like this. In a way, he hadn't. While innumerable girls had appeared topless before him, in random acts of immediacy, she was the first to bare herself, in a jumble of brazen sexuality and mindful shyness.

She reached out for his hand again before he was ready to touch her; he was still in a panic to memorize every last contour and contrast she had to offer. She placed his open palm against her flushed chest, his fingers resting over the edge of her collarbone. He willed her not to be embarrassed or ashamed as he locked his gaze on hers again.

"This is real," she finally spoke. "And that scares me, Tristan. This isn't going to go away; it isn't something I can tuck away when it gets too much. I don't want to run away and hide from this, from you, but I need you to help me through it," he could hear the hint of imploring in her voice.

He slid his hand down, grazing over smooth skin, letting his other hand match the movements on the other side of her body until he used both hands as a cover for her breasts. Her only reaction was to shiver against his palms, waiting for more. His hands continued to slide, down and around to her back, pulling her frame against his. Her skin was cool to the touch, but he knew he could change that in an instant if need be. And his need was growing greater, skyrocketing since the moment she gave her body over to him. He bent his head slightly to align his lips with her ear.

"Lie down," he instructed, letting his hands slide along her body as she moved out of the embrace. She lay down on top of the covers, wearing only a pair of loose cotton shorts. Her eyes were glued to his body, wondering what his next actions would be, he was sure. He moved his hands to lift his shirt up off the back of his body, but she reached out, her fingernails lightly grazing his knee.

"Wait," she urged, and he stopped dead, knowing as she did that these were the last few moments of retraction. And to be fair, the sight of her like this, bare-breasted with hair splayed out loose over her pillow—it was a sight he wasn't truly worthy of. It was more than what most men's dreams were made of.

"Let me," she smiled softly, holding her hand out for his, inviting him to join her as he was.

Instantly he was dizzy with want; true blood displacement. He let her tug him gently to rest beside her on the small bed—why they weren't in his spacious king-sized bed in his deserted house was probably a matter of comfort on her part. He vowed to himself to make her feel at home anywhere he was in the future.

Her fingers were now seeking out the edge of his shirt, still tucked into the top of his pants. He helped her, untucking the back as she worked at the front, only halting as she ran her hands up underneath the front of his shirt, skimming his abdominal wall. He somehow remained still as she slid the pads of her fingertips back down, just far enough to reach out to grab the material and begin to pull it off his torso. He took hold of it as it came over his head, throwing it down next to hers in case of a hasty exit later on.

He took her back in his arms, laying them down and pressing them into flesh-on-flesh contact. He leaned over her, sealing his lips to hers as a pleasured sigh escaped her lips. He could count this in the first of the ultimate feelings of relief she would provide him with—many of them stemming from the puzzle-like quality of how their bodies fit together. He felt her anchor herself against him, one leg swinging over his in effort to pull him closer as if he'd desire to leave her in this state.

Soft whimpering was all he heard as he worked each section of skin into a heated frenzy on his way down her body, paying each deserving square inch reverence. Hearing his name roll out of her body like that—not begging, not encouraging; but a new hybrid of the two altogether—it was like he was experiencing come sort of religious rite.

He felt her stiffen and lift her hips when his fingers automatically nestled into her waistband, at the ready to go about his normal business. Only at feeling her muscles contract against his fingers did he remember that nothing about this encounter was routine—from her expectations to the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears as he pressed his mouth into her stomach in a series of chaste assurances. Once she was relaxed underneath his touch again, he slid the material down just a couple of inches, just enough to reveal the top of her panty line. He slid his hands back up her sides, coming up under her back, raking his fingers over her muscles as he came back down, now easing her shorts off like they were melting from her body. He let her kick them off of her ankles, settling back down to her body, tracing the edge of the only fabric covering her body, separating them, with two fingers.

He was startled out of his path of discovery when her hand slid over his, taking its lead and pressing his palm over the triangle of cotton that separated him from her. His fingers descended into her body, aching to sink in and lose himself somewhere deep inside her. He nipped the tender skin of her hip with his teeth, ready to tease her into compliancy, into necessity for his eventual destination.

He expected her mewling.

It was her reassurances he didn't expect as she kept her hand over his, which he realized now was trembling more than ever; pushing it down, helping him brush aside the scrap of cloth covering her.

"It's okay," she breathed.

He nodded, using both hands to rid her of the garment altogether. As she lay in wait for him, he took just a moment to burn the sight of her into his memory. His hands raced up her silky legs, and he lowered his lips to her now for the first time, doing his best to ease her into the new sensations—relief of otherworldly burning and aching; pleasure coming out of pain.

--&--

His body had never known satisfaction in kind before. Release for the sake of sanity was one matter, but losing his mind gladly for the sake of her hands seemingly all over him at once—it seemed a small price to pay.

He'd not planned this far ahead. In fact, at her request to join him, he'd not known what to expect, save for more of the same heated, rushed exchanges of pawing and fairly innocent exploration. Tasting her. Molding her to him. Stoking the fires. The luxury of time had never been entertained as a real notion. The chance to bring her to the point of griping hold of her sheets with white knuckles, sweat beading down her chest, and her sweet scent filling not only his nostrils but the whole of her bedroom—that had been beyond his wildest estimations. Being sure of his abilities to pleasure her quickly wasn't what this was about. He'd brought her to the brink over and over, backing off purposefully as the call for him to hurry up was never sounded. When she finally let go, his having no ability to back off in time, he had to soothe her to remain quiet, for fear of not even a proper goodbye should she awaken not only the household, but her entire neighborhood.

But a proper goodbye wasn't what she had in mind. With her fingers in his hair, as he rested against her chest, she waited for stasis.

"My turn," she whispered, still at a pant.

"That was your turn, did you not get that?" he teased, kissing her breastbone.

She smiled dervishly. "I want to touch you," she began. "Don't you want me to?"

"How much time do we have?"

"Forget about time," she leaned up to kiss him softly, deeply, convincingly. Gone were all worries and concerns, thoughts of anything but the present and her rolling him onto his back as she took control, asking him for more than anyone had ever asked of him before—to hand himself over to her care. To trust that her intentions were one with his.

Now it was he who bit back moans, his hand guiding hers; helping her test pressure and speed. He allowed a low groan to escape his throat after he tasted the faint metallic tinge of blood on his lip from his overly aggressive measures to silence himself. Even if he hadn't been able to feel the fruits of her actions, he could have achieved pleasure just from the sight of her coaxing his body into reaction.

Her name tasted like honey as he called it out, he wondered if his voice sounded as thick as it felt in his mouth, if she would taste burned sugar mixed with the tinge of warm metal when her lips again met his.

He was so lost in her, in fact, in the overwhelming sensations, that it took him a while to realize what she was doing. Her legs straddled his hips, her fingernails raking down his chest. He opened his eyes to see her positioned over him purposefully, her hand guiding him up to meet her. Had she more experience in this arena, he might have been too late, so lost in this fog as he was.

"Rory," he moaned again, not achieving warning over lust as he'd hoped. She smiled, and he had to catch her lowering hips with his hands, cursing his righteousness as he felt her heat brush over him.

"Stop," he forced out, still clamping his hands into her hips to make sure she couldn't forge on.

"But I want," she began, her calming voice was there to let him know he wasn't a perpetrator here; but he shook his head as he damned his ill-prepared state of being.

"I don't have anything, we can't," he waited as realization of what she was about to do washed over her.

"Ohmygod," she put one hand to her mouth, nearly collapsing between his knees on her backside. "Oh my God," she closed her eyes.

He was on knees in a moment, his arms around her in a show of support. He was as much to blame for letting her get that close. And he wanted her; God, how he wanted her.

"You don't have anything, here," he began questioningly, hoping for a miracle of biblical proportions.

"I'm sure Mom does," she began, "but Max is here, I can't just," she shook her head.

"Shit," he swore, lowering his forehead to her shoulder. "No, no, you can't. I didn't think this would," he quieted at the feel of her arms slipping around his torso.

"I know. It's late, anyhow," she acknowledged.

"I should probably go," he nodded into her.

"Right. And I'll see you later, to go over the final presentation?"

"My house, three o'clock," he recited. "I don't want to leave you," he admitted as she clung tightly, nestled in his lap and burrowed into his chest.

"Can you stay? Just 'til I'm asleep?" she looked up with hopeful eyes. Like he might say no.

"Anything you want," he promised, pressing his lips to her still damp hairline.

He watched as she reluctantly pulled her night clothes back on, correcting her appearance so as to appear that none of this had transpired come the rising of the sun, when people that wouldn't understand the need they felt or the agony of their separation would stumble upon her. People who wanted to keep her just as she was, or rather how she had been weeks prior. He slid under the thin covers next to her, wearing only his underwear so as to keep as much of the skin-to-skin contact as he could; the feeling that he was already experiencing withdrawal effects from the loss of. He stroked her hair, and he marveled at how peaceful she looked with her eyelashes falling against her cheek. He ached to kiss her slightly parted lips, afraid to stir her until he knew she was rendered completely unaware of his presence.

He wondered if she would feel his absence when she woke alone.

Finally her breath fell evenly, and he tested one quick brush of his lips against hers. He slipped on the remainder of his clothes silently, looking out the window to see the first lights of dawn breaking out under the tree line in the distance. He pulled the covers up over her securely, making sure no signs of his having been there were visible. He closed his eyes, lowered his lips to hers, and whispered against them.

"I love you."

And with that, he let himself out her window, disappearing from her quiet life and heading back to his of deafening silence.

Calmed nerves left him cold in the cool spring morning air.


	14. Part Fourteen

Summary: Trory. Set Season One Post-TBP2 and Pre-LDAT. The Kiss at Madeline's Party never happened for the purposes of this fic.

Disclaimer: I own no rights to anything that is mentioned in my stories, including the main characters that I've borrowed for my plot manipulations.

Rating: M

Story Title: Untouched

Chapter Title: Part Fourteen

AN: Thanks to all of you for waiting so patiently. This has been mapped out in my head for a couple of weeks, at least. But, as some of you may know, I hate writing the last chapter to stories that I love. And I've loved writing this one. And sadly, this is the last chapter. So enjoy, and thank you all for being such amazing reviewers. I'm glad you've enjoyed it as much as I have.

She never really felt like she belonged.

To anything or anyone; save for her mother, who straddled the same line of two worlds that she did. Had she been a different kind of person, a jaded girl who saw the world through the filter of her circumstances, she might have blamed her mother for her inability to be in her surroundings, nestled among her peers, and feel at ease.

In the small town to which her mother fled in both of their youths—to protect them both from the judgment of those who looked down their noses at the way in which she was brought into the world—they were cared for, but pitied all the same. "Poor girl," she'd hear in loud whispers after turning the corner away from people that had looked out for her all her life. To her face only her praises were sung, but she could always see the cognizance of her "situation" in their eyes.

She even saw a glimmer of it rising up through the layers in her own mother's gaze when she wasn't careful to keep it buried.

That was the difference she saw in him. Despite all her internal warning systems, all the bells and whistles that had been installed in her to keep from stumbling on the same trip wire that her mother had, she was drawn back to him each time. Each time finding a greater pull, a heightened need. When she looked into his steely blue eyes she saw not even a suggestion of pity. In his eyes instead she saw warmth, so real that it raced through her body. If he had been made aware of her upbringing past what little she let him in on (and who hadn't) she noticed only that his references to slight her were in due part that she preferred some other boy from her other life to comfort her.

He'd had every right to push her on that fact. In Tristan's arms had been the only place in which she had ever found true solace.

He was where she fit, in more ways than one.

She realized she was lost in her thoughts as a knock came to the frame of her bedroom door. She sat up quickly at the odd sight, but immediately stood and moved into Tristan's arms.

"How'd you get in?" her question was muffled as her face buried into his blue blazer.

"The door was unlocked," he let go of her and shrugged. "So, this is what it looks like in the light of day."

She blushed, realizing how normal the setting was. She was ready for school, in her room with her folded laundry stacked on the edge of her bed. Her book bag sitting on her desk chair. Somehow it all looked foreign with him standing before her, in the midst of everything she used to find so familiar. All she could think of was his body, under hers, the heat that radiated between them, drawing her closer. . . .

"You ready to go? We don't wanna be late today of all days," he ran his thumb down her cheek, to bring her out of her daydream. Yet again.

"Right, let's go," she nodded purposefully. She had to focus today. Their presentation counted for a large portion of their respective grades, and she knew he was prepared. She couldn't have spouted off at him for so long in the early stages of their preparations to be the one to flub up because she was picturing him naked on her bed from nights prior. Utter and total irony.

She smiled at him and nodded again. "Yeah, you're right. Let's get out of here, before anyone sees your car," she didn't quite meet his eyes as she grabbed her bag and headed out of her room ahead of him, trying to put the events of last weekend behind her for the next seven hours.

--&--

He'd been very understanding. She knew their relationship had shifted two nights prior, but she couldn't put words to it. They hadn't spoken of what had happened, throughout their last review session yesterday or the car ride to school this morning, but she felt guilty for going about their normal routine of ignoring one another after barely having been two separate people throughout those midnight hours in her bedroom. She knew she had to be cordial and competent once she got to her American Lit. class, but that didn't make all their other sightings any less breath-catching. The one time she had dared to meet his eyes in History, she felt the weight of the build up of the past three weeks on her shoulders. Surely too much had happened for it to be okay for them to pretend nothing was different about their dealings.

It was just too encompassing. She had to talk to him, to tell him that nothing could ever change what had happened between them. He had to know that, even though she was afraid that standing too close to him would alert the entire world to the newfound heights they had revealed together.

She really needed to talk to him.

But her day seemed to be speeding toward their presentation, this pinnacle—her first few classes were just a blur, her nerves frazzling more the calmer she tried to remain. Perhaps her classmates and instructor would see her disjointed visage as only a fear of public speaking—but he'd know. He'd see her eyes unable to focus on her note cards as they scanned randomly over the thick paper and hear her voice quivering as she wavered over the wrong word to get to the correct one. All because it was a lie, to pretend that she wasn't affected by him.

"Hey, Mary," he called out to her as she had nearly stepped one foot over the threshold into their classroom. She spun on one heel, never so glad to hear his flirtatious tone in her life. She couldn't even manage to look annoyed as she approached him, stopping not nearly as close as she would have liked. The distance was palpable.

"What is it?"

"I wanted to talk to you, about the presentation?"

"Okay," she nodded, looking around to see her fellow classmates walk around them and stream into the room. All noticed the pair, but none seemed to think twice about the sight. After all, they were partners—it wasn't like he had her backed up into the lockers. She closed her eyes briefly at the thought.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice nearly inaudible. She leaned in closer and hissed back her answer.

"I'm fine," she dismissed.

"You've been like a zombie today," he pointed out. "If this is about this weekend," he began.

"It's not what you're thinking," she admonished, hating the fact that he had spent the entire day thinking she regretted anything about that night. Though she had—just not what he believed her remorse to be. Now just wasn't the time, and she wondered if she even had the words to tell him how she longed to feel the completion of his body connecting with hers, as they'd been so close to achieving such a short time ago.

"And you know what I'm thinking?" he asked, the edge added to his voice nearly slicing through her skin.

"Are you two joining us, or is being fashionably late part of your presentation?" came the disdainful voice of their grade-bearer. Rory shot him one more distress-filled look and turned her back to him, obediently following her instructor into the classroom. She was in her seat by the time he walked through the door, seeming to trigger the final bell.

"How nice that everyone could join us today. Let's get started, shall we?"

He sat down behind her as the first pair got up, spouting off information she had known for years about books she'd read back in grammar school, when most of those who surrounded her were graduating into chapter books for the first time. She'd been on a first name basis with the librarians around town before she knew the name of the guy that worked at the toy store. There had never been much money for toys back then—but library books were free. A notion that had plagued her six-year-old mind, yet still the difference probably had never occurred to any of the people around her who drove their choice of new model sports car.

Why it suddenly bothered her that she was different in such basic ways than the other young men and women that filled these halls alongside her wasn't clear. She'd been going to this school long enough; shouldn't she be immune to such frivolous thoughts? She tapped her pencil against her desk repeatedly, staring blankly toward the front of the room as her mind raced.

She felt his hand on her shoulder, and all movement halted. He handed her a folder over her shoulder, seemingly for their upcoming speech. She looked down to see he'd written on the front cover.

For all she knew, he was pissed off at her. She would have been pissed off at him if the situation were reversed. She was acting distracted and distant after they'd been more intimate than she'd ever been with anyone else in her life. She knew it was torture to be able to still feel his body pressed into her and not even so much as shake his hand in public now. She'd had the chance to clarify what was bothering her but walked away instead.

'We're prepared for this.'

He was reassuring her. She took a deep breath and rose when the teacher called out their names in short succession. DuGrey and Gilmore. He was straightening his tie, standing next to her, and watching her intently as he waited for her to begin. She gave a small nod to him and took her place at the podium. She saw the teacher start the ever-present stopwatch that monitored their allotted time (just another thing to be graded on to make the indiscernible fractions of a point difference in each of their grade point averages) and began to lay out their introduction.

She was nearly finished with her first portion of their research into their books when a knock came to the door. The stopwatch was paused as all attention turned to the door. A student came through with a note from the headmaster's office, which was handed dutifully to the teacher. She read over it quickly and looked to the pair in front of the room.

"Tristan, you need to head to the office and take your books," she said as briskly as she walked, handing him the note. His face paled as he scanned over the sheet from a monogrammed notepad. He didn't look at Rory, but in his stilled shock, she was able to read what had spooked him from over his shoulder.

'Janlan DuGrey admitted to Hartford Memorial Hospital. Have Tristan head there straightaway.'

Rory gathered her books as well as his and came back to stand beside him. She knew his whole world was crashing down around him right now. His parents had gone off to Asia the night before, he was alone—even more so with Janlan in the hospital.

"Let's go," she touched his cheek to bring his focus on her. He looked at her quizzically, at the pile of superfluous books in her arms.

"Ms. Gilmore, you're not excused from class," came the voice of authority that expected her to push on and finish the presentation on her own. She knew this and yet she felt no draw stronger than to leave the premises right now with him. He needed her more than she needed a good grade.

It hit her suddenly. They were linked, no matter the fact that no one else knew it before now. Having people able to gossip about them didn't validate them, just as it couldn't harm them. She was going with him because that was where she needed to be.

"I can't let him go alone," she said simply and turned back to him as a buzz of scandal and disbelief roared out of her classmates' mouths in the form of harsh whispers. "You ready?"

He nodded and left the classroom mutely with her at his side. She took his keys and hesitantly got behind the wheel of his car, eyeing him with concern as she drove to the nearest hospital.

"Everyone knows," he said finally, not having said an actual word since before their class started.

"Yeah, I guess so," she agreed.

"I don't understand," he said slowly.

"Yes, you do. You would have done the same thing," she took her eyes off the road for just a second to look him square in the eyes. It was freeing now, after having been avoiding the very act all morning.

"I wanted you to meet him," he croaked. She had never heard him sound like this—small, in a way. His voice had cracked, signaling that this was the part of him that, despite his ability to bring out the fire of passion in her, was still a boy.

"I'm going to, today," she assured him. She reached out her hand to rest it on his knee as she continued to drive.

--&--

She'd been waiting in the ICU waiting room for the last few hours. She focused her attention on the door now, waiting for Tristan to get back from talking to the doctor. They'd been waiting in silence for most of the time to hear definitive news on his situation. She'd offered to do everything in her power, whatever he had wanted, and all he had wanted was for her to be there, he'd said. It didn't feel like enough somehow, but still she remained rooted in place.

He came back into the sterile room and lay down on the couch, his head resting completely lax into her thigh. She ran her fingertips through his soft hair and dug them back in, over and over, until he closed his eyes.

"They don't know anything. He had a stroke, but they're not sure how bad it was, until they can run some tests," his voice trembled.

"Oh, Tristan," she sighed, not ceasing in her motions. "I don't even know what to say."

She couldn't imagine going through this with her own grandfather. Especially now, after just starting to really get to know her grandparents. She thought of that awful night last winter, when they rushed him to the hospital with angina. It had seemed so frightening at the time, but it was nothing in comparison. Her heart literally ached for him.

"You came, that's more than enough," he looked up into her eyes from his place in her lap. She offered a small smile.

"I had to."

He just nodded and closed his eyes again. She watched him, wondering if he was sleeping. She lost all track of time, knowing it was just the two of them, waiting for better news. So much had changed for her so fast, but it didn't even occur to her that her presence might be missed elsewhere as she watched over him.

Until her cell phone rang.

She dug in her bag fruitlessly for a moment, hoping not to disturb him. He sat up as she continued to rifle through the contents and extracted the source of the disruption. She saw the name flash over the ID, and she cringed.

"Where are you?"

"Mom, I'm sorry, I forgot to call you," she began, realizing there was no good way to explain her actions from today. She was going to have to tell her mother the whole story now. It wasn't like the whole school didn't know at this point, though the rumors were surely flying about just how close she and Tristan had become. Telling her mother was inevitable. "I'm at the hospital with Tristan."

She turned her head to see how he was holding up, now that her attention seemed to be diverted. He reached out and took her hand in his. Her mother's mind was running at top speed, but all Rory felt was a distinct saturation of tranquility. Gone were worries as to how this might look, or what it might mean for her future, or what she would have to say to assuage all the concerns her mother would have: the baggage from his life that would carry over into hers, his expectations of a more physical kind of relationship, her ruining her chances at achieving her goals by being careless. Lorelai was already rambling about having noticed when he came to town a few weeks prior that he wasn't her sort of guy. That from everything she'd seen and heard, he had his eye on her and wanted different things than she did. He wanted something other than what she was.

None of what she said mattered. She simply didn't know anything of the matter.

"Mom, I'm not going to ask your permission. I want to be here—no, I need to be here. I'll be home at some point, but for now, this is where I am. I'm sorry I didn't call you, and I realize that skipping out on classes isn't normal behavior for me. It's not something I plan on making a habit of—this was a dire situation."

"This is a lot of new info, kid."

"I know. I didn't tell you before, but I didn't really realize, until today, that I," she bit her lip as she spoke to her mother, but looked directly at Tristan. Both were listening intently. "I'm with him."

Her mom told her to call if she needed a ride home, and she slipped her phone back into her bag after turning it off. He never took his eyes off of her.

"Did you mean that?"

She smiled. "Was I being presumptuous? Because if you have a date this weekend," she teased softly.

"Nothing I can't reschedule," he drew his finger over his jaw, as if deep in thought.

"I don't know if you think girls find that charming or not, but let me be the first to tell you, it's not," she glared at him.

"Noted. You're not afraid I'm gonna corrupt you?" he moved closer, putting his arm around her shoulders.

"I think there are enough people currently forming a prayer chain over the very thought, I don't need to get in on the action. Besides, I'm fully aware of your effects on me."

He smirked. "I'm definitely a fan," he nuzzled his nose into the crook of her neck.

"Though there is one thing I'd like to request, before this becomes official," she put on her sternest face, searching his eyes with hers.

His face grew as solemn as hers, and she could tell he was bracing himself for some hard question, the holy grail of impossible requests.

"I think it's time to put the Mary thing to rest. It's hardly apropos with you hanging around all the time."

A slow, relived grin broke out over his face. "I thought you were going to make me sign in blood that there would be no other girls."

"Giving me ideas is dangerous," she shook her head and picked up his hand to examine his fingers. "Any of these bleed better than the others?"

He pulled his hand gently out of her grip and felt out the skin that covered the gentle slope of her cheekbone. "I only want you, Mary."

Her attempts at swallowing the lump in her throat were futile. She wrapped her arms around him and burrowed into his chest, much as she had this morning, but this time he held her tightly against him like he might never release his hold on her.

"Me too," she whispered as she pressed her cheek into his at long last. His lips brushed against hers innocuously, like a match being brushed against a strike. Air only fanned the flames as she drank in his fear and he her lingering reservations. There was no room for anything between them other than the electricity that sought to fuse them together.

She made just one more phone call before dusk turned to dawn, to let her mother know she wouldn't need a ride that evening. Leaving him now, alone to make a resting place out of the hard couches in the waiting room without the comfort of her skin to sink into, to wake up alone and frightened, it wasn't an option. She would stay and be the last thing he was cognizant of that night, her soft humming as she rubbed soft circles into his scalp. She would be the first thing he saw in the morning, with her head bent back over the top of the couch—having slept contorted in a seated position so as not to disturb him.

And in the meantime she would study his skin, every mark and mar—perfection graced with imperfections—and come to find what she had been looking for all this time. The syncopation of their heartbeats. The way his arm wrapped around her whole thigh as he buried his face into her stomach. It'd all seemed so difficult up until now, but she realized that it'd been as simple as letting go and reaching out for him.

She belonged to the world he wanted to create with her.


End file.
